






Library OF congress. ! 

# # 

||hap.'T.2,,l |opgrigW |[o. ...... I 




# 

! 

I UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. | 



\ 






V ' , ^ 



« 






♦ > 



\ 




» 


t 

t 



I ’ /> 


I 





\ 

4 


\ 


* 



-v 


4 

% 


% 


V 


#- 


( 





A . 


» • 

\ 

r 



i » 


r 


< 


1 




¥ 


V ' 


• « 






« % 





<. 




« 


»• 

\ 




« 




% 


% 






\ 






? 





I 

•e 






» 


j « 



f 

« t 


4 




f 


4 



« 














« 



I 


# 


4 

'I 


t 






I 


*» 


/ 


« 







% 




4 ' I 



/ 




r 


t 


«, 


i 


i- 


I 


/ 


« 









1 ' ' • 


v» 


\ . 




. *•/ 


'I 





I' 




* 


'■■V^ 7 v' 


•• 




j. 


^ '\i^ r\l , 


• j 


• i 
i < 


4 I 


■ w- ?'-; 

4-. * 


II 


i > 

•s 

' <: 

tv ’j 



• f ' / 

* 'tY■*-<V^' 




\. 


‘ % 


4 

# > 


I 


• / 

. I > 




f 


f *. 


.»■■ ' • •• 




i t> 





' i* • 
111 * 




• p 


V 


•r ^ 
I 

• « 


i 7 




r 


,. <> 



jf . 


/ 






^ r 


i 


■ ■ 


r h 


■A 


• • / 




V 


t I 

n 


* « ’ r 

•V. 

♦ 

Lti' V . 
t?- r* 


' , 

‘rt 

I* 

f 

1. ' i*i 

f/..Vi'. ■ 

t; 


*• ..' 

t V 


t 


^•^<•V^.■• rT/ 

► ' • - /• A < : 


4 

^ * 
* . 


• # , . 


■ ‘ v *•> » .Vj 








^ . 


S' 



’ ; •» A *■ ^ 


t 

ii 


I 1 

♦ ‘ ]i 
* </ 




V I 

C' 


s 


^ 


« / 


• » 



i) 




M 


• \ 


> • 

• t. 

f 


N > 

I 

* > 

* I 

^ '• 




• 1 




...• I.', 't V'l't 


1 « * n y r 




♦ V '' 


• ^ 


)/ 

.v.> '-s 

, /V "■ *4;» ' 

.1 i*. ^ * '•* ‘ 


• \ 


*’ '’I 

%f < .'l 

I « 


1 > I 


# 

I 

I \ 


4 I 


I .» f « t « I J \ a i ^ 

V.. ',' '■ C,' '*. ' '. 


: \ ■ 

, W' 


» 

■ V I 


II 


.S 

/ 


*A 


.UlP , •■V !>• , * 




' M - • * 4 » I 


p t 


♦ t 






Light from Heaven 


\ ^ p. 130, 

A 


f 


T'nck Wv^'rtlov 


Frontispiece;. 














DICK WORTLEY; 


OB 



/"/ 

MRS. Jr’MmUKER, 

ACTHOR OF “boy MISSIONARY,” “UNDER 1118 BANNER,” ETC. 



NEW YORK: 

GEN. PROT. EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION, 
unb §ook ^ocictg, 

762 Broadway. 


/ 


1863. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1962, by 

« 

The General Prot. Episcopal S, S. Union, and 
Church Book Society, 

tn the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the 
Southern District of Now York. 



3 



\ 



i ' ) 


C. A. ALVORl), STERtlOTYPES A VP PRINTER. 




BY TUB 


©ffuinp flf i\t Sanitag 


OF 


TEDHTT CnUECH, NEWTOWN, CONN 




^ ■ 










t ^ ' 


.>rioy jK^v^rv/a*! *1^ *1^/:^ YW,^r : 





' TABLE OF CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

THE YOTJNG CAPITALIST 7 

WHAT DICKIE HAD NTOT DREAMED OF 25 

NEW PLANS FOE THE FUTURE 32 

THE missionary’s HOME 42 

NAT CROSBY 50 

FINE TIMES 62 

DOWN AT THE CABIN 68 

DICKIE RECEIVES A NEW LESSON 81 

THAT LITTLE GOLD DOLLAR 93 

DICKIE HEARS A VOICE 105 

TAKING A STAND 120 

THE LIGHT FROM HEAVEN 131 

GONE TO COLLEGE 141 




' i — .-’l-«. ...Q ,y-'^j.»«^ 

._ •*--^ >*■.. “• trJ 1 I 


:t 


^ * ■ 



' fc[ '• 








^ I . .J'j' •(’'r ' 

I \ • . y ’‘‘ 


) t 


f^' 


7 





I 


■ f‘*- '* 

V-.‘ 

.*i<s 













s ' • r 


r m • 


't^> If Xk ••' 


|t''ijgi', •",. . . .'. . I’i .■.', ►i'f ?"^;'f*li«v rp7 , 'I' i_*ji 


•it. 


• I M • •.« 


• « I 


....... . ...»W*.r|, '' •*£',; 

yi . • ji y ,M. ■;*, , T 

a *1* - , « •v* ► t,fct\ •* ^ 4 . ‘ ’ 


^ 1 j. V 


I « «Ni ’4»'i i. tjiA ^ ^ ■* ' •- 

» ^ _i ^' . ■ » » I • ♦ ■ • * •lip i ^ 

■ .r.:, 


?75B|^ “s 'f • ^ ***^ ' " *^* '**' ^ A' “ • ^ U0* - -1* 




• i'Vt.t't • I - « ty '> r'.fLdJ<4** 

».- . 1 ♦ • • • • *?.- ‘ • * * 

jL. /V 


tJ, 




n*:ut 

my •' =11 ‘ 'A ‘ ^ • f • • . -t • . 1 , j * 1 ■ • • ■ V^P 

^■* ^ * *■ / *• i ^ ^ 

'’ '’i*; ; „ . . ,:.• . . ..... . .^...»,...v>w « « 





li 1 


DICK WORTLEY; 


OR, 

cuoosma a peofession. 


CHAPTER L 
THE YOUNG CAPITALIST. 

Ten dollars! the whole of ten dollars; 
Dickie’s eyes shone and expanded with joy. 
He had had money of his own before, a great 
many times ; there was seldom a day when he 
had not a few pennies, at least, in his pocket. 
But he had never felt so rich as he did that 
day — the possessor of a gold piece — the whole 
of ten dollars. 

It had come to him all the way from China. 
His father was the owner and captain of a ship, 
and while stopping at Shanghai, for a few days, 
he had written a long letter to his son, enclos- 
ing a ten dollar gold piece, to be spent exactly 
as Dickie might choose. 


8 


DICK woktley; ok, 


Mrs. "Wortley was an invalid, and Dickie 
was lier only child. She was too feeble to go 
out among her friends, or to entertain them at 
her house, and it was but seldom that she ad- 
mitted any one to her chamber, excepting 
Dickie and the nurse. She wished for no other 
society, and so bound up was she in her petted 
boy, she would have kept him by her sofa day 
after day, had she been able to overcome his 
inclination for out-door exercise. But Dickie 
was not the boy to grow pale and puny from 
study, and want of air and sunshine. 

It was a very quiet house, except when 
Dickie was at home. The servants went on 
tip-toe, and softened their voices, for Mrs. Wort- 
ley’s diseased mind could not bear any noise, 
unless Dickie was the originator of it. He 
might roll his ball through the hall, practise 
gymnastics on the stairs, and laugh and shout 
wherever he chose, without disturbing her in 
the least. He was now a robust boy of four- 
teen, with a cheek as brown as that of his sea- 
faring father. 

He had taken the letter from the office him- 
self, and having read its contents, ran home 
with breathless speed and burst into his mo- 
ther’s room, shouting the good news. 

‘‘A letter from father, mother! A long, 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


9 


long one ! And see what he has sent me !” 
holding lip the gold piece — ‘‘ IN’ow Gruff shall 
have the silver dollar, and Prancer’s saddle 
shall be made good as new !” 

“ I was jnst dreaming of your father” — and 
she reached out her pale, thin hand, for the 
letter, smiling a sad smile as she did so. She 
opened it, but could not read it for her tears. 

“ I wish you would read it for me, Dickie,” 
she said, sinking back upon her pillow. “ But 
tell me first, does he say he is coming soon ?” 

“Yes, by Christmas time, and that is but 
six months, you know — I wish it was but five 
weeks — but the best of all is” — and Dickie 
clapped his hands in his boyish enthusiasm — 
“ he is going fo sell the ship, and stay at home 
with us for the future. You will get well then, 
won’t you, mother ?” 

Mrs. Wortley only said — 

“ Bead the letter, Dickie. How glad I am 
he is coming soon.” 

The old sea-captain, who had spent the best 
years of his life upon the ocean, was tired at 
last of his homeless calling, and filled his letter 
to his wife and son with his home-sick yearn- 
ings to be with them once more, promising, if 
he was again permitted to return, to give up 
the sea forever. 


10 


DICK woetley; ok, 


“ I am afraid he never will be contented off 
the sea,” said the mother despondinglj. 

“ I am not,” replied Dickie, with great assu- 
rance. “He will soon find out how much 
happier he can he with us than away off on 
the ocean. We will travel all over the country 
together. We will go to Hew Orleans, and to 
Lake Superior, and W ashington, and the White 
Mountains.” 

He might have added Pike’s Peak, and 
Hudson’s Bay, but his mother interrupted 
him. 

“ Oh, Dickie ! What an extravagant castle- 
builder you are! A wild dreamer!” Her 
hand fell lovingly upon his head. “ You must 
not set your heart on your dreams ; they will 
disappoint you.” 

“ But father will certainly he home next 
Christmas;” for Dickie could not read her 
meaning aright, “ unless” — and a slight cloud 
shadowed his face — “ something dreadful should 
happen.” 

They were silent ; both thinking of the same 
thing — tlie same dreadful thing which might 
happen. 

“ Your father has sent you a liberal amount 
of spending money,” said his mother, wishing 
to turn the sad current of their thoughts. 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


11 


“ You must spend it judiciously ; not as 
thoughtlessly as you did the last five dollars 
he sent you.” 

The allusion was rather mortifying to Dickie. 
A few months before he had received five dol- 
lars from his father, and had scattered it in less 
than three days, he could hardly tell where. 
It was true, he had a new pair of skates, and 
there were several useless articles lying about 
the house, he had not cared for since his foolish 
impulse led him to purchase them ; but he had 
not the worth of five dollars ; he was confident 
of that, and, after puzzling himself, as he never 
had before with a cash account, he gave up the 
task good-naturedly, thinking some one had 
cheated him, but never dreamed of laying the 
blame upon himself. 

Dickie Wortley committed more sin in 
spending money, as he did, than in any other 
way. He never refused a beggar, if there was 
a penny in his pocket, nor any demand upon 
his generous nature for others, as well as him- 
self. He knew not the value of money, nor 
the sin of spending it foolishly. 

Out of church and Sunday school, which he 
did not attend regularly, Dickie received little 
religious instruction and guidance. His mo- 
ther seldom talked to him upon religious sub- 


12 


DICK woetley; ok. 


jects. He was very affectionate, obedient and 
respectful to her, careful in the choice of bis as- 
sociates, and never gave her the least anxiety 
or trouble. She was a member of the Church, 
and regular in her private devotions. But she 
did not see that it was God’s mercy alone that 
had ]3revented her darling child from growing 
up to be her curse instead of her blessing. She 
thought that ojily bad boys required Christian 
teaching. 

“ But I told you how I am going to spend 
this money,” said Dickie ; “ the saddle and the 
collar will not take it all. May-be I can buy 
me a violin.” 

His mother looked incredulous, but said no- 
thing. Dickie asked her to change his gold 
piece into ten gold dollars, to which she readily 
consented, and she dropped them slowly, one 
by one, into his porte-monnaie, wishing he had 
a hundred, or even a thousand to count, instead 
of only ten. 

When Dickie awoke, the next morning, the 
uppermost thought in his mind was that of 
going down town, after breakfast, to make the 
purchases he had determined upon the night 
before. Before leaving his room he re-counted 
the ten bright dollars, almost wishing that he 
was not to spend them that day. 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


13 


He parted with one of them sooner than he 
anticipated, and in a manner that he had not 
calculated upon. He found Archie, a little 
colored boy, who assisted the gardener some- 
times, crying in the stable. It was an unusual 
thing for the light-hearted little fellow to shed 
tears. 

His story was a pitiful one that morning. 
His mother, who was a widow, had been sick 
for a fortnight, and unable to go out to work. 
During that time Archie had also been out of 
employment. They had spent the little money 
laid up for a rainy day, and as his mother was 
yet unable to work, and he could not procure 
a situation, starvation stared them in the face. 
He had asked Mrs. Wortley’s gardener for 
something to do, but Thomas did not require 
his services, and had repulsed him rather 
harshly. Dickie’s hand was on his porte-mon- 
naie before he heard the story through. 

“ Well, don’t cry any more, Archie. Carry 
that to your mother and one of the gold dol- 
lars was within the little black hand. Run 
up to the kitchen, and Katie will give you a 
basket of cold victuals. You must let us know 
when you want any thing again.” 

Archie was speedily out of sight, and Dickie 
went in search of Thomas to consult him con- 
2 


14 


DICK wortley; or, 


cernmg the saddle. He found the repairing 
was likely to cost more than he had supposed, 
yet he concluded to send it to the saddler’s. 

“ Oh, how many nice things I shall be able 
to buy with my nine dollars !” thought Dickie, 
on his way down town, that morning. He 
supposed he had made up his mind as to what 
he would buy, for, strange as it may seem to 
many of my readers, the idea of saving any of 
his little fortune never occurred to him, and, if 
it had, would not have been harbored. Ac- 
cording to his closest calculation, nine dollars 
would just suffice for the purchases he wished 
to make. 

He had not gone far when he met a young 
girl, bearing a basket of beautiful bouquets, 
which she offered for sale to passers-by. Her 
flowers were dewy and fresh, and exquisitely 
arranged, and Dickie, knowing how delighted 
his mother would be with such a sweet gift, 
selected the most beautiful of them all, gladly 
breaking one of his little gold pieces to pay for 
it, and, hurrying back to his mother’s chamber, 
placed it where she would behold it as soon as 
she awoke, for she was still asleep, having 
passed a restless night. 

Then he intended to go directly for Gruff’s 
silver collar, but a bookstore, with a large show- 


CHOOSLNa A PKOFESSION. 


15 


window, lay in his way, and in this window 
were displayed attractive pictures for patriotic 
boys, like Dickie Wortley. An engraving of 
the Surrender at Yorktown struck his fancy 
strongly. How nicely it would fill a niche in 
his room. He had a Washington, and a Decla- 
ration of Independence. He must have a 
Yorktown also. 

The price of it, four dollars, did not discour- 
age him. He laid the money upon the coun- 
ter, and was delighted with his new possession. 
He was leaving the store, hardly satisfied with 
giving up Gruif ’s collar, as he then knew he 
must, when the shopkeeper accosted him in the 
deferential manner highly flattering to hoys of 
Dickie’s age. 

‘H have a fine set of chess-men to show you, 
sir;” and he proceeded to open a show-case. 
“ They were made to order, sir, but have been 
left upon our hands.” 

How Dickie knew nothing of the game of 
chess, and cared nothing about learning ; but 
he was delighted with the quaintly carved 
pieces, each a work of art, and instantly in- 
quired their price. 

“ Only ten dollars !” 

Fortunately, Dickie had not ten dollai’S in 
his porte-monnaie. 


16 


DICK wortley; or. 


“ I cannot take them, this morning,” he said, 
looking wistfully at them. “ They would be of 
little use to me; I know nothing of the game.” 

‘‘ Did you say that you knew nothing of the 
game ?” responded the shopkeeper, in a manner 
causing Dickie to think slightly of his accom- 
plishments. Dickie blushed, and repeated the 
statement. 

But you must learn the game. All young 
gentlemen play chess, now-a-days. Let me 
show you a cheaper set, good enough to learn 
with.” 

They looked very cheap, indeed, beside the 
more costly ones, but Dickie had been so im- 
pressed with the idea that it was necessary for 
his reputation that he should become a chess- 
player, that he bought a set of pieces, and left 
the shop, half angry with himself for the pur- 
chase. 

He was walking slowly along, fearful that he 
wmald not have money enough to pay for the 
repairing of his saddle, when he heard a famil- 
iar voice behind him, calling his name. It 
was his pastor, Mr. Mowbray. Dickie bowed 
respectfully. 

“I am going to see lYillie Mchols,” said 
Mr. Mowbray. “ Have you been to see him 
lately?” 


CHOOSmG A PROFESSION. 17 

]^o, I have not,” replied Dickie. “ Is he 
any worse ?” 

Mr. Mowbray looked sad. 

“ I am sorry yon have not been to see Willie. 
He lies there all alone, most of the time, and 
would prize a visit from you very highly. Ho, 
he is no worse, nor is he any better ; but, with 
all his suffering, his patience seems only to in- 
crease. I wish you would go with me this 
morning, to see him.” 

Dickie spoke truly, when he said he would 
be happy to go, for he loved poor Willie 
Hichols, and his conscience condemned him 
for having stayed away from his sick bed so 
long. It was almost two years since he had 
seen him, and yet they did not live a great dis- 
tance from each other. 

I did not see you at church, last Sunday^ 
Hichard ;” remarked Mr. Mowbray, as they 
walked slowly along. 

“It rained, you remember,” was Dickie’s 
reply. 

“ But what does a strong, healthy boy, like 
you, care for the rain? Was it that which 
kept you from church and Sunday school ?” 

“Ho, I do not think it was;” and Dickie 
dropped his eyes. 

“But because you did not care to come 
2 * 


18 


DICK wortley; or, 


added Mr. Mowbray, seriously. “ I am grieved 
by this indifference of yours, Kichard. I 
think, sometimes, it would be well for boys 
like you, to be obliged to live, for a short tiine^ 
in a place where there is neither church nor 
Sunday school ; and where you could see the 
sad effects of the deprivation of these holy in- 
stitutions.” 

Now the idea of living in such a place did 
not strike Dickie unfavorably, but he did not 
express his thoughts upon the subject. He did 
not think it would be very hard for him to have 
to stay from church altogether ; and, as for 
Sunday school, he disliked learning the lessons. 

Mr. Mowbray, doubtless, would have discov- 
ered the state of his mind, had their conver- 
sation been continued, but they were at the 
old brown tenement house, in a room of which 
Willie Nichols lived. 

“ I hope I shall see you at church next Sun. 
day,” said Mr. Mowbray, as they were ascending 
the steep, rickety stairs: “shall I be disap- 
pointed?” 

Dickie promised to be there. 

“And don’t forget the collection;” added 
Mr. Mowbray. “We must send a handsome 
sum, if possible, to the Domestic Missionary 
Society this year.” 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


19 


Willie Nichols had lived twelve years, and 
more than half of those had been spent upon a 
bed of pain. 

It is hard to be sick, even when you have a 
loving mother, or gentle sister to Avait upon 
you, and do all in her power to soothe your 
pain. But Willie was motherless. Brother or 
sister he never had. His mother Aras laid in 
the grave-yard Avhen heAvas a young babe, and 
the Avorld had gone very hard Avith the poor 
boy. His father Avas a poor man, obliged to 
go to his hard AA^ork ev^ery day, and Willie Avas 
left in the care of one person and anotlier, and 
very poor care he had sometimes, until he Avas 
old enough to look after himself. But, Avith all 
his hardships and afflictions, he found much to 
be thankful for. His father Avas a Christian, 
and had trained up his son “ in the nurture 
and admonition of the Lord.” Mr. Mowbray 
had not, in his little flock, a child Avho Avas 
better acquainted Avith his Bible and Prayer 
Book, and avIio understood his Catechism better 
than Willie Nichols, although he had seen the 
inside of a church but fcAV times in his life. 
He Avas a SAveet sample of the perfection Chris- 
tian graces can attain to, when fostered by suf- 
fering, poverty, and loneliness. 

Mr. MoAvbray opened the door softly, Avith- 


20 


DICK woktley; ok. 


out rapping ; it was possible that Willie might 
he asleep, and he would not disturb him. 

Willie was lying upon the bed supported by 
pillows. A tray was placed beside him, con- 
taining a glass of milk and a piece of brown 
bread. It was his breakfast, and he was thank- 
ing the Giver of the same. His white, emacia- 
ted face, wore a saintly beauty, and had it not 
been for the movement of his lips, Dickie 
would have thought him dead. 

They paused outside until the short prayer 
was said. When Willie saw them, his face 
brightened with joy. 

“Ah ! I am so glad to see you this morning !” 
he said, warmly grasping Mr. Mowbray’s hand ; 
but he did not recognize Dickie, and looked 
inquiringly towards him. 

“Have you forgotten Dickie Wortley?” 
asked Mr. Mowbray. “ He has come to see you 
again, this morning.” 

Willie looked as if he almost doubted the 
statement. It was hard to believe that the 
tall, broad-shouldered boy was the little Dickie 
Wortley he used to know. 

“ Can it be Dickie ?” he said, looking up 
into the honest, sun-brown face. “ But how 
you have grown ! Air and sunshine can d<) 
wonders. If you had lain here for many years. 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


21 


as I have, you would no doubt be as white and 
puny as I am.” 

‘‘ I am afraid I should not be as patient as 
you are,” Dickie said. 

“ You cannot tell how patient you might 
be,” returned Willie. 

‘‘ But, do you never get lonesome and down- 
hearted?” asked Dickie; “I know I should 
be wretched if I was shut up here day after 
day.” 

Willie smiled tearfully. “I pray, when 1 
feel so,” he said, and then my trouble grows 
lighter. It is hard to lie here when I hear the 
children laughing and playing out of doors. 
If I can only get well enough to sit up by the 
windoAv again I shall be glad.” 

“ Some might think,” said Mr. Mowbray, 
“ that Willie has reason for calling God a par- 
tial distributor of His blessings. Here is a 
poor boy, who must fight his way through the 
world, and neither health nor strength is 
granted him ; and here is another, who will 
probably never have to labor for his bread, and 
yet he has a constitution of iron and an arm 
fit for a blacksmith.” 

“ Yes ; some might think it is wrong,” said 
Willie, meekly, “ but God is right.” 

“Do you stay alone all the time?” asked 


22 


DICK WOKTLEY; OB, 


Dickie, glancing about the poorly furnished 
room, thinking it would be a dreary place to 
be shut up in. 

Willie said that he did, unless he was much 
worse, and then his father would leave his 
work and stay with him. There was an old 
lady in the house who came in to see him 
sometimes, but the rest of the tenants were 
more of an annoyance than comfort. 

“ Oh, how lonesome you must be !” and 
Dickie blamed himself for staying away so 
long from that lonely sick room. 

The remark brought the tears to Willie’s 
eyes, and he looked up to Mr. Mowbray with 
grateful aifection. 

I do get lonesome, particularly on the dark, 
rainy days, when the sunshine does not come 
out and the birds do not sing in the apple-tree 
under the window. But Mr. Mowbray comes 
in when he can, and I have my Bible and other 
good books, and I ought not to find fault.” 

Mr. Mowbray urged Willie to eat his break- 
fast, as it was already late in the morning. 
Dickie was surprised at the sick boy’s appetite 
for such plain, uninviting food. He concluded 
it was a diet prescribed by his physician, and 
thought it a hard addition to sickness to have 
to subsist on such fare. 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


23 


They sat nearly an hour by Willie’s bedside. 
Mr. Mowbray read tlie Morning Lessons, 
Psalms and Prayers. Willie made many in- 
quiries about the Sunday school and all that 
was going on in the Parish. 

“ I hope I shall have a penny for the con- 
tribution next Sunday,” he said ; “ father 
thinks he can give me one.” 

The idea of Willie Kichols giving any thing 
to the Missionaries struck Dickie rather 
strangely. He thought, that if he were in 
Willie’s place, he would keep his pennies, for 
no one could need them more. 

If all of the children of the Church were 
as much interested as you are in her welfare,” 
said Mr. Mowbray, “there would be a great 
change for the better. You can give us your 
prayers, Willie, and feel that you have done 
your part, even when you have nothing else to 
offer.” 

They were about to take leave, when Mr. 
Mowbray asked Willie what the doctor then 
thought about his recovery. 

“ It’s the old story ;” and Willie looked 
rather despondent. 

“ Did he mention your diet ?” 

“Yes,” and Willie blushed faintly; “but 
we cannot do as he tells us at present.” 


24 


DICK woetlet; or, 


‘‘ Did he recommend something more tempt- 
ing and nourishing than you have had?” asked 
Mr. Mowbray ; ‘‘ did he advise the use of 
wine?” 

Willie, rather unwillingly, admitted that he 
did. He was afraid his good pastor would 
receive it as a demand upon his charity. 

But Dickie’s hand was already upon his 
little porte-monnaie, and out came one of the 
bright dollars, which was silently pressed 
within Willie’s palm. Willie was too much 
moved to express his gratitude in words, but 
his eloquent eyes told the whole story. Of 
course Dickie was not willing to be seen in 
tears, so he promised Willie he would come 
again soon, and abruptly left the room, the 
sick boy gazing at the little gold piece as if it 
were all a dream. 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


25 


CHAPTER II. 

WHAT DICKIE HAD NOT DREAMED OF. 

Dickie never thought again of his promise 
to Mr. Mowbray, until he heard the hells ring- 
ing the next Sunday morning. He was in his 
mother’s room, frolicking with his King Charles 
spaniel. 

“ Oh, dear !” he impatiently exclaimed, 
when the bells recalled his promise, “ I told 
Mr. Mowbray I would be at church and Sun- 
day school to-day. I have not looked at my 
lessons, but I suppose I must go.” 

“ Make haste, then, and get ready,” said his 
mother ; “ you ought to go to church every 
Sunday.” 

“■ I am glad you don’t require my going so 
often,” said Dickie. “ How I wish I had not 
to go this morning.” He went slowly up 
stairs, looking very ill-natured. 

He was leaving the house, when he remem- 
bered the collection Mr. Mowbray had spoken 
of. He went back impatiently and took a five- 
('ent piece from his porte-monnaie, as his offer- 
3 


26 


DICK wortlet ; or. 


ing, and with no other feeling on the subject 
than that he must give something, and five 
cents would suffice. Ah ! he spurned the 
divine blessing, promised to the cheerful giver. 
Had he given ten dollars, or a thousand, in 
that spirit, he would have lost the blessing just 
the same. God is not unrighteous, that he 
will forget your works and labor that proceed- 
p,th of love^ 

Dickie Wortley was glad that he had been 
baptized. He had the impression that in some 
way he was the better for it. He did not think 
so highly of children who had not been bap- 
tized in their infancy. He said his prayers 
at morning and night — said them oftentimes 
without praying them. He was proud of be- 
longing to the Church, yet he knew little of 
her history, and took no interest in her work 
and prosperity. If he had been asked why he 
believed the Church to be divinely ordained, 
he would have been puzzled for an answei , and 
a cunning teacher could easily have led him 
from her fold. Wlien shall we have fewer 
Church boys like him, and more that can 
“ fight manfully under Christ’s banner,” be- 
cause they are acquainted with her glorious 
history and have faith lully studied her Cate- 
chism ? 


CHOOSING A 1‘ROFESSION. 


27 


Dickie wrote a long letter to liis fatlier tliat 
afternoon, tlie last that would reach him 
before his return. Dickie was not a very good 
penman. He wrote so little, and played ball 
so much, his hands were stiff and clumsy when 
he held a pen. He always wrote a pretty 
good letter to his father, for he filled it with 
all of his boyish affairs, making careful 
mention of every one of the household 
down to Dinky, the old Iffaltese, asleep on th< 
rug. 

“ Do come home, father,” he wrote in this, 
“ and we will have mother out of doors in 
no time. She has not left her room since 
last May, when she went out on the piazza a 
few moments to give Thomas some directions 
about training the vines. She is dreadfully 
pale and thin. I tell her she looks like those 
pretty lilies at the bottom of the garden. A.s 
we told you in our last, the doctors have pro- 
nounced hers to be a case of heart disease, and 
say she must keep very quiet. If I am ever 
sick, I hope that won’t be the rule for my get- 
ting well again, for I know I never could obey 
it. went with Mr. Mowbray to see Willie 
Mchols the other day, that poor sick boy in 
Brown street, you remember. How sorry I 
am for him. but he seems as happy as any one 


28 


DICK wortley; or, 


else. Bring him a nice present when you 
come home. They are very poor indeed.” 

Dickie read his letter to his mother, and she 
added a few words in pencil, the sad expres- 
sion of an apprehension she did not suffer 
Dickie to read. 

“How glad I am father is really coming 
home !” said Dickie, for the hundredth time 
that day. “Was his mother alive when he 
went to sea the first time 

“ He lost his father and his mother when he 
was but a child,” replied Mrs. Wortley, who 
knew but little of her husband’s early history, 
and had never talked much with Dickie upon 
the subject. “He had a younger brother, 
William, and the two children were adopted 
by a maiden aunt, who did not use them very 
kindly, and so your father, when he was but 
ten years old, ran away to sea.” 

“ And what became of his brother ?” Dickie 
asked eagerly. “ Is he dead ?” 

“ Hot that we know of. The last we heard 
of him he was living at the West, somewhere 
in northern Wisconsin, I believe. I re- 
ceived a letter from him about a year ago. I 
have not answered it, for I have not been able, 
but I wish you would answer it, Dickie.” 

“ Of course I will. Why, I never knew 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


29 


before that I had such a thing as an uncle, or 
relative of any kind, excepting father and you. 
I do think it is very strange your never telling 
me of this uncle before.” 

“ You must remember, Dickie,” said his 
mother, “ that your father has not seen his 
brother since the night he left him asleep in 
his trundle-bed, to run away to sea. That was 
a great many years ago, and they have corre- 
sponded but seldom, although your father in- 
tends to visit him when he comes home 
again.” 

“ And I shall go with him. I would give 
more to see an uncle, or a cousin, than to have 
the acquaintance of a whole royal family. But 
where is the letter ? I will answer it this very 
day.” 

“ ITot to-day ; your uncle is a clergyman.” 

A clergyman !” Dickie’s countenance fell. 

“Yes; and a very pious man. He is a 
Churchman and a Missionary Pastor.” 

“ Has he any children ? Do tell me if I 
have a cousin ?” 

“Yes, you have several;” most gratifying 
intelligence to Dickie, who seemed ready to 
dance about the room. “ Your uncle has four 
children, if I remember rightly, the oldest a 
boy about your own age.” 

3 * 


30 


DICK wortley; or, 


Dickie exclaimed outright for joy. 

‘‘ He shall come and live here and be my 
brother. I must answer that letter at once.” 

“ The baby’s name is Hobert, after your 
father. He must be two or three years old by 
this time. It is unpardonable that I have 
neglected that letter so long.” She closed 
her eyes wearily, and Dickie saw that she 
was talking beyond her strength. 

‘‘ You look tired, mother,” he said, affec- 
tionately kissing her. 

“ I am, darling. Let me sleep a little while, 
and I will tell you more about your uncle to- 
morrow.” 

She turned over upon her pillow. Dickie 
saw the expression of deep pain that settled 
upon her face, and asked if he should send in 
the nurse. She replied that he need not, she 
should feel better after a little rest. 

He went wandering about the grounds, 
thinking only of his uncle and cousins, and 
how he would go with his father to visit them, 
and the “ brother” he should bring home with 
him. 

When he went up to bed that night, he 
paused, as was his wont, at his mother’s door, 
that she might bid him come in if she was not 
asleep. Hot hearing her voice, he concluded 


CHOOSIN-G A PEOFESSION. 


31 


that she was not awake, but that he would 
steal in softly and give her his good-night kiss, 
as he often did, without waking her. 

He thought, as he bent breathlessly over 
her, that he had never seen her half so beauti- 
ful. She was smiling her dear old smile. 
She looked calm and painless. His father’s 
daguerreotype lay upon her pillow. 

Pressing his lips to her cheek, he started 
suddenly back, uttering a frightened cry, but 
it did not awaken her. He laid his hand upon 
her forehead. Its coldness chilled him, but 
she did not move. Then he called to her so 
loudly that the nurse came in to see what was 
the matter, but the mother did not open her 
eyes. 

“ Shall I send for the doctor ?” he asked, 
almost frantic with alarm, yet never dreaming 
of the truth. 

‘‘It will be useless, now,” said the old 
woman, calmly and tenderly, catching the 
fainting boy in her arms, when she added, 
“your mother is dead.” 


32 


DICK woetley; ok, 


CHAPTER III. 

NEW PLANS FOR THE FUTURE. 

"W HEN the mother was laid in her grave, the 
beautiful old mansion of Captain AVortley 
became a gloomy and desolate place. Dickie 
could not endure to remain there. He had 
entered the house but once since the funeral, 
and then its emptiness depressed him so pain- 
fully, he accepted Mr. Mowbray’s kind invita- 
tion to make the Rectory his home, for a few 
weeks at least, if not until his father’s re- 
turn. 

Since his mother’s death, Dickie had found 
in Mr. Mowbray a valuable friend and adviser. 
The boy felt his loss most keenly, and did not 
soon recover his cheerfulness. Indeed, his 
health had become so affected by the depres- 
sion of his spirits, that his physician advised 
his being sent away from home for a time, 
either to school, or, what he considered better, 
upon a tour of diversion. 

“ Have you no friends or relatives you 
would like to vi dt ?” asked Mr. Mowbray, 


CHOOSING A PEOFESSION. 


38 


wlien Dickie was hesitating where he slionld 
go ; for, strange as it may seem, his grief fall- 
ing upon him so suddenly, had driven his 
uncle and cousins from liis mind. 

“ Indeed I have !” and the boy’s face bright- 
ened with joy. “ I will go and see my uncle 
William.” Then his voice and countenance 
fell, as he added, “ How forgetful I have 
been ! I have not written to him of what has 
happened.” 

“ Is he your mother’s brother ?” asked Mr. 
Mowbray. 

Dickie told him the little he knew of his 
uncle. Mr. Mowbray was surprised at never 
having heard of him before, as he was a 
clergyman. He was highly pleased with the 
idea of Dickie’s making the visit, and en- 
couraged it. 

“But, perhaps, we cannot find out where he 
is,” said Dickie, with a loss of animation ; 
“Mother said that there was a letter from him 
among her papers, but it was written a year 
ago.” 

Mr. Mowbray referred to his Church Al- 
niMnac, and soon found that the Rev. Wm. 
Wortley, Missionary Pastor, was located at the 
village of Lincoln, Wisconsin. 

it is a backwoods place,” said Mr. Mow- 


34 


DICK woktley; oe, 


bray. “1 did not know before that the 
Chutcli bad planted her foot there.” 

This observation did not dampen Dickie’s 
enthusiasm in the least. He was delighted 
with the idea of seeing backwoods men, 
stumps, deep forests and log-houses. He 
would take his gun, his dog and his fishing- 
tackle, and what a fine time he would have. 
He was more joyous than he had been since 
his mother’s death. Mr. Mowbray, as well as 
Dickie, wrote to Mr. Wortley that afternoon, 
and the answer was awaited with not a little 
anxiety. In the mean time, Dickie’s mind was 
diverted by the preparations to be made for 
his departure, for Mr. Mowbray had deter- 
mined upon his going away to school if he did 
not make the visit to Wisconsin. The house 
was to be shut up, and left in the care of the 
faithful old gardener and his wife, who had 
lived in the family many years. 

Dickie’s extravagance and thoughtless ex- 
penditure of money was held in check by Mr. 
Mowbray. He not only taught liiin the sin 
of wasting what is but lent unto us by the 
Lord, but tried to impress upon his mind the 
foolish recklessness he would display in throw- 
ing away what might prove to be all that he 
would ever receive from his father. 


CHOOSING A PKOFESSION. 


35 


“ You cannot tell,” said Mr. Mowbray, 
“ what may yet befall you. You are not sure 
of your father’s return, or of the success of this 
voyage, and I learn from your father’s laAvyer 
that, if this voyage prove an unsuccessful one, 
the estate will be heavily encumbered. The 
little fortune your mother left you may possi- 
bly be all you will ever inherit save from your 
own laboring hands.” 

It w’as much easier for Dickie to resolve to 
practise economy than to carry that resolve 
into practice. He was thoughtless and impul- 
sive, and would have done many foolish tilings 
wdth the spending-money his guardian gave 
him, had it not been for the careful oversight 
of Mr. Mowbray. 

Dickie grew very impatient to hear from 
his uncle William. He was confident that he 
should go to Wisconsin, and entertained Lucy 
Mowbray by telling her of all that he should 
do in the woods of Wisconsin, where he seemed 
to imagine a bear or a rattlesnake would be met 
at every turn. He was talking with her one 
day of the presents he should carry to his uncle 
and aunt and four cousins, and truly his ideas 
were liberal, if not the wfisest, and showed how 
little he dreamed of wdiat the circumstances 
and needs of his uncle’s family might be. The 


36 


DICK wortley; oe, 


idea of presenting a poor missionary with 
velvet slippers, a silk dressing-gown and a 
gold-headed cane, his wife with a box of fine 
gloves and a perfumery-case, and his children 
with a quantity of confectionery and toys, was 
sufficient proof to Mr. Mowbray, who sat in an 
adjoining room and heard the conversation, 
that Dickie was likely to meet with a disap- 
pointment in regard to his uncle’s surround- 
ings ; but he waited for the letters, which came 
at last. There was one for Mr. Mowbray and 
another for Dickie. Dickie ran up to his 
chamber to read his, for his heart and eyes 
were full before he broke the seal. 

“Do you think he will be disappointed?” 
asked Lucy, when her father had finished 
reading his letter to her mother and her. Mr. 
Wortley had given Mr. Mowbray a plain state- 
ment of his circumstances — ^liis limited means 
— the expenses of his wife’s late illness — the 
demands of his poor parish — and many of the 
unpleasant inconveniences his nephew must 
expect to bear with if he made them the pro- 
posed visit. 

“This picture,” wrote Mr. Wortley, “may 
lead my brother’s son to change his mind, but 
we sincerely hope it will not; for we wish 
above all things to welcome the motherless 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 37 

boy to our humble home. "Were it in my 
power I would come for him, but as it is not, 
I have no doubt of his ability to make the 
journey alone. The route is direct, and if he 
follow the directions I have given him, he 
will, I think, reach us in safety. 

“ You, my dear brother in Christ, who have 
ever manifested an active interest in the work 
of the Church upon the north-west frontier, 
know better than I can tell you the extent of 
our home comforts, and you must not suffer 
my brother’s child, who knows nothing of dep- 
rivation, to come to us without understanding 
our circumstances. If genuine affection and 
hospitality are sufficient to induce him to 
make us the visit, let him come, for he will 
not be disappointed.” 

“ Do you think Dickie will be disappointed?” 
repeated Lucy, breaking her father’s abstrac- 
tion. 

“Ho; nothing but having to give up the 
visit would disappoint him in this case.” 

“But he has no idea of their circumstances,” 
she continued. 

“ It is just the school I would have placed 
him in,” said Mr. Mowbray ; “ it will be the 
making of the boy, I think.” 

“It will certainly be a new experience,” 
4 


38 


DICK woetley; oe, 


said Mrs. Mowbray ; “ I only wish I knew 
something about his aunt.” She had a 
mother’s anxiety for the boy. 

Dickie’s entrance prevented further remarks 
upon the topic. He had evidently been weep- 
ing, but his face was again animated with 

‘‘Can I start to-morrow?” he eagerly asked. 
“ I have nothing to do but to pack my trunks, 
you know.” 

“Yes, you can leave to-morrow,” replied 
Mr. Mowbray, “if you are still desirous to go.” 
He bade Dickie sit down beside him, while he 
read to him his uncle’s letter. The tears flowed 
afresh down the boy’s cheek as he listened to 
the affectionate expressions of his uncle. 

“ I don’t care if they are poor,” he said, “ I 
want to go, just the same.” 

“ And I see no reason why you cannot set 
out to-morrow,” said Mr. Mowbray. “ We dis- 
like parting with you, but boys are impatient 
of delay.” 

“ You will have to buy your presents this 
afternoon,” interposed Lucy. 

Then Mr. Mowbray laughed outright. 

“ If I am not mistaken, the velvet slippers, 
fine gloves, and perfumery, will have to wait 
another purchaser ; will they not ?” 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


31 ) 


Dickie blushed, for lie saw his folly. 

“ I think you had better take me with you 
on your shopping excursion,” interposed Mrs. 
MoAvbray. “ I can tell you what will be most 
acceptable to a poor missionary’s wife.” 

And so Dickie and Mrs. Mowbray sallied 
out together, that afternoon. The purchases 
were less expensive and of a different char- 
acter from any Dickie had thought of making, 
but they were chiefly of Mrs. Mowbray’s selec- 
tion. There were some valuable books for his 
uncle’s library, pieces of linen and muslin for 
his aunt, clothes for boys’ wear, suitable dresses, 
and a liberal supply of toys and sweetmeats. 

Mr. Mowbray had a long conversation with 
Dickie in the library, that night. The boy was 
in the mood to be impressed by what his pas- 
tor said, and the earnest admonitions found a 
place in his heart, l^ever before had he 
attached any serious importance to the fact of 
his having been baptized. He had been un- 
conscious, until that hour, of his accounta- 
bility to God. He said his prayers, that night, 
as he had never said them before. He had 
begun to think of heavenly things. 

He was to be allowed but a limited amount 
of spending-money, during his absence ; a 
much smaller sum than had hitherto sufflced 


40 


DICK wortley; or, 


for his expenses. He was not, upon any con- 
dition, to incur debt, or to make a considerable 
purchase without first consulting his guardian. 
Dickie did not think very pleasantly of these 
restrictions, but knew it would be useless to 
oppose the firm and irritable old gentleman, 
who had the care of his father’s estate. 

Mr. Mowbray’s words, at parting with him 
that night, kept him awake some time. He 
did not understand their meaning. 

“I am glad you are going to this place, 
Hichard. I hope and pray it will be the means 
of placing your feet upon a track you might 
otherwise never have chosen.” 

Dickie would have asked for an explanation, 
but Lucy came in at that moment, with his 
chess-men in her hand. They had been for- 
gotten, when his trunks were packed. Would 
he take them with him ? 

Dickie did not want them. He had never 
cared for them, nor tried to learn the game. 

“Why not give them to Willie Hichols?” 
suggested Mr. Mowbray. “ They would help 
to amuse him.” 

So they were sent to the sick boy the next 
day, accompanied by several other articles, 
which Dickie thought would be acceptable to 
him. The chess-men were a great acquisition 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


41 


to Willie. His father made him a hoard, and 
he soon learned the moves from Mr. Mowbray. 
He would solve problems, or play a sort of 
game by himself, moving one set of the men 
hap-hazard, with his eyes shut. 

“What did Mr. Mowbray mean?” asked 
Dickie, of himself. “ Did he think of my be- 
coming a pioneer, like old Daniel Boon? 
What a grand life that ’would be ! Out in the 
woods all the time, hunting, fishing, and living 
like Bobinson Crusoe. I never thought of 
being such an adventurer, before;” and his 
eyes closed in slumber, and in his dreams he 
was pulling up the Columbia River, in his birch 
canoe, clad in skins be had taken from his 
game, his game-bag by his side, and his beard 
lying shaggy and unshorn upon his breast. 

4 * 


42 


DICK wortley; or, 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE MISSIONARY’S HOME. 

It was a plainly-fiirnislied, but lioine-like 
apartment, rag carpeting upon the floor, paper 
shades at the windows, a lounge and large 
rocking-chair, covered with gaily printed cal- 
ico, a book-table, and over the mantel an en- 
graving of the' bishop of the diocese. It was 
a chilly, rainy day, although in midsummer, 
and a fire had been built in this, the “ best 
room” of the house, and four children, evi- 
dently in their best clothes, vrere gathered be- 
fore the window, that looked down the road 
to the village. 

“ I wonder if he is as big as Eddie, and if he 
can read off Latin like him ?” 

“He is a year younger than I am, you 
know,” said Eddie, the oldest of the little 
group, a tall, slender boy, of grave deportment. 
“But he has had the very best advantages. 
We haven’t such schools and teachers here as 
he has had.” 

“ But I don’t believe he knows any more 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


43 


than yon do,” broke in Bessie, who never ac- 
knowledged any one’s superiority over her 
favorite brother. 

“I suppose he wears fine clothes, all the 
time,” broke in Johnny, who was feeling, as 
usual, uncomfortable in his — Johnny was a 
noisy, fun-loving boy, not yet nine years of age 
— “ and that he carries a watch, and has plenty 
of spending-money on the Fourth of July.” 

“ Oh, I do hope he will give something to 
old Susan,” said Bessie. 

“ I hope he will give father something for 
the chapel,” said Johnny. “ And I wish we 
could have a marble font, like that we see in 
the church at Milwaukee.” 

Little Bobin, it is not to be supposed, was 
silent all this time. He chattered incessantly 
about his cousin Dickie, asking all kinds of 
questions about him, and was growing almost 
peevish with impatience, because the stage- 
coach did not come in sight. 

“ Perhaps he will buy papa a new surplice,” 
suggested Bessie. I don’t think mamma can 
make the old one look decent much longer.” 

“I hope he will help us in the parish 
school ” said Eddie. “ If we only had another 
teacher, papa would be relieved very much.” 

“ Oh» I know we shall love him !” said Bes- 


44 


DICK wortley; or, 


sie, her voice softening. “ How sad it was for 
him to lose his mother so suddenly. I do 
hope he will be happy here.” 

“ I shall take him up to the swamp, to-mor- 
row,” immediately broke in Johnny, who had 
completed his plans for his cousin’s entertain- 
ment. “ I know of ever so many humble-bee 
nests ; and there is a windmill, up there, the 
biggest you ever saw.” 

‘‘ Oh, Johnny !” exclaimed Bessie, “ what do 
you suppose Dickie will care for humble-bees,, 
and mud-turtles ? How are you going to amuse 
him, Eddie ?” 

“ I thought we would make an herbarium ; 
he has never seen many of our flowers. We 
will play chess, and translate together.” 

“ And he shall have half of my flower-gar- 
den, for his own,” said Bessie, who counted 
her flowers as among her dearest treasures. 

“ And then you will have only half as much 
to weed as you have now ;” and Johnny laughed 
provokingly. He was feeling a little ill-na- 
tured, upon the supposition that Eddie and 
Bessie were to have the whole disposal of 
Dickie. 

Mrs. Wortley came in, looking pale and 
weary, but wearing the cheerful smile which 
made her household one of the happiest upon 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


46 


earth. In less than a half-honr, they might 
expect to see the stage-coach coming over the 
hill. Oh, how slowly the minutes went by ! 
Mr. Wortley came in, but he could not talk to 
any of them. He was as restless as Johnny, 
who ran to the gate every three minutes, and 
at last climbed upon the gate-post, where he 
sat looking most forlorn. They strained their 
eyes with watching until their eyes grew 
weary. It was already past the time, and all 
but Robin grew silent. Then a disttint rum- 
bling of wheels, a shout from the gate-post, and 
they saw the stage-coach coming over the hill, 
and, as it drew nearer, they could discern the 
single passenger inside, a brown-faced, broad- 
shouldered boy, who leaped out among them 
before the vehicle had fairly stopj)ed. 

******* 

Dickie and Eddie had gone up to bed. It 
was yet early, but Dickie was worn out with 
his long journey, and his aunt insisted upon 
his retiring early. How happy every one of 
them was! Mr. Wortley had found in his 
nephew the image of the brother from whom 
he had been separated so long, and meeting 
him was like the return of the runaway sailor- 
boy. Johnny was lost in his enthusiasm for 
his cousin, for he had seen the balls, gun and 


46 


DICK woetley; ok, 


fishing-tackle he had brought with him, and 
had received the warmest assent to his pro- 
posal of an excursion to the swamp on the 
morrow. Indeed, if any one was a little dis- 
appointed, it was Eddie, but he loved his 
rough, warm-hearted cousin too well to he un- 
happy in his disappointment. With not a 
little pride, he had taken Dickie to his book- 
case, which was filled with books every boy 
would not choose for his reading — certainly 
not Dickie Wortley. The books were chiefly 
historical ; there were also some valuable 
works upon natural history. 

‘‘Have you read Livy?” and Eddie took 
down the new copy his father had lately 
bought lihn. “Z never have, and I thought I 
would wait until you came, and we would 
begin it together.” 

Dickie laughed right merrily, for he had 
never been mistaken for a student before, and 
the idea of his reading Livy was a new one. 
He threw down the book rather contemptu- 
ously. 

“ What’s the use of reading Latin ? English 
is dull enough for me. While you are poring 
over that in the chimney corner, Johnny and 
I will go off killing rattlesnakes — won’t we, 
Johnny?” 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


47 


J olinny was too happy to sleep that night. 

The presents had been distributed, and the 
recipients declared the gifts to he just what 
they should have desired. Mrs. Wortley was 
in the greatest need of linen, but had never 
dreamed of having that need supplied. Like 
many another poor clergyman’s wife, she had 
learned to do without necessaries. Bessie’s 
new dress ! was there ever any thing so pretty ! 
and then it was so much better than what 
papa could have bought her. And her work- 
box ! She should be able to sew much better 
than ever before, and her little fingers had 
done the shirt-making for two years. It was 
a hard task to charm down Robin’s eyelids. 
His trundle bed looked as if Santa Claus’ 
full sleigh had been spilled over in a trip 
across it. 

“ I think he will be happy here,” said Mrs. 
Wortley, when the children were all asleep. 

“He is like brother Robert,” replied her 
husband, “ and will be happy almost anywhere 
— except in school.” 

“ What a strong, healthy frame he has ! I 
wish Eddie was not so frail.” 

“ Dickie will make him stronger, I imagine. 
It is best for our child that Dickie is not a 
bookworm. Did you see the trunk full of 


48 


DICK wortley; or, 


‘ boys’ traps ’ he has brought with him ? 
Enough to fit out a small gymnasium.” 

‘‘ Do you think he has had religious train- 
ing ? He did not join us in the Lord’s Prayer 
or in the Creed.” She referred to their family 
prayers that evening, in which Dickie had 
taken no part, save that of a respectful lis- 
tener. 

“ I observed his silence,” returned Mr. 
Wortley. ‘‘His mother was a Churchwoman, 
I am sure, yet she may have given him but 
little religious training. We cannot tell what 
our infiuence may do for him.” 

Dickie did not fall asleep directly. He was 
in a new place, and had much to tliink about. 
He was delighted with his new friends ; he 
loved them, every one. He felt that his aunt 
would be like a mother to him, and with the 
thought his heartache came back, and silently 
he wept for her who would never kiss his tears 
away again. 

He had not expected to find his uncle living 
in quite so small and plain a house, and with 
so very few luxuries. The humble rectory 
was a very different place from what he had 
imagined it to be. When told that he was 
near his journey’s end, he had looked along 
the road for the pretty gothic cottage, with 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


40 


shady porches, haj window and tasteful 
grounds he had seen in his dreams of Wis- 
consin. An unpainted frame house, a story 
and a half in height, without blinds or 
porches, and but few trees to shade it, with a 
potato-patch on the right of its entrance-gate, 
and a narrow lawn and a few flower-beds upon 
the left — a new and almost cheerless spot was 
the reality. 

But Dickie was not afraid of getting home- 
sick. He fell asleep dreaming of the fine 
house and furniture his father would give 
them when the old ship brought him home 
from China. 

5 


50 


DICK wortley; or, 


CHAPTEK Y. 

NAT CROSBY. 

Dickie awoke late the next morning. Hav- 
ing slept soundly, he was much refreshed. 
Rising from his pillow, he saw Eddie seated 
by the window, bending over his book and 
slate. 

“ Good-morning, bookworm, good-morning ! 
Do yon always get up before daylight to 
amuse yourself in that way? Ho wonder you 
are as pale and thin as moonshine! What 
time did you get up, and what time is it now 

“ I was up at sunrise,” — and Eddie laid 
aside his book and slate. It is now eight 
o’clock. How are you this morning ?” 

Bright as a button 1” and he bounded out 
of bed. ‘‘Eight o’clock is very well for a 
sleepy boy like me. What a beautiful morn- 
ing ! At home, ‘ we boys’ go down to the 
river on mornings like this and have a bath. 
Have you a good place for bathing in this 
neighborhood ?” 

Eddie told him of the creek but a short dis* 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


51 


tance from the house, where Crosby took 
his hath the year round — winter as well as 
summer. Dickie shivered. Nat had been 
teaching Johnny to swim. They had most 
likely been to the creek that morning. 

“ And don’t you go with them ? Can’t you 
swim ?” 

Eddie acknowledged his decided partiality 
for the bath-room — he never liked going into 
the creek ; besides, he could not spare the time 
from his studies in the morning. 

“ If you study in the morning, what do you 
do the rest of the day ?” asked Dickie. 

“I help Nat in the school. Father has 
started a parish school, but has little time to 
devote to it himself. I hear several classes, 
and teach penmanship. After school, there is 
always something to be done, and so the 
evenings and mornings are my only time for 
study.” 

“ But why do you study ? Don’t you know 
enough already?” 

Eddie laughed. “I am not much of a 
scholar,” he replied. “ I have never been at 
school. Father is the only teacher I have 
ever had. You have had the best advantages 
of education, I suppose.” 

“Yes; father never would hear of my stay 


62 


DICK WOETLEY; OE; 


ing home for a single term. We always had 
good times at the Academy — splendid times. 
The hoys are the best fellows in the world.” 
Then Dickie entertained his cousin with 
some of the incidents of his happy school life. 
Eddie was amused, but doubted his having 
been a very laborious student. 

“ I don’t intend to go to school any more,” 
said Dickie. “ Men have made their mark in 
the world with half the education w^e have. 
What are you going to be? I have got my 
profession to choose before father gets home.” 

“I am going to be a minister,” replied 
Eddie, slightly coloring. 

“Are you?” Dickie’s voice and manner 
expressed his disapprobation of his cousin’s 
choice. “You will never get rich by preach- 
ing. Fie ! fie ! you must give that up, for we 
are going to sea with father. We will make 
our fortunes, as he did his.” 

Eddie made no reply, and they went down 
stairs. Mrs. Wortley was getting breakfast, 
and Bessie was cleaning trout at the pump. 
Dickie joined the latter, after watching his 
aunt’s busy operations for a while. He de- 
clared the trout to be the finest he had ever 
seen. 

“ Did you catch them, Johnny?” 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


53 


“ITo. !Nat brought them as a present for 
you. We can catch them when nobody else 
can.” 

“And who is IS^at? I have been hearing of 
Nat Crosby all the morning.” 

“ He is a young man who is studying witli 
father,” Bessie replied. 

“ Ah ! a divinity student !” and Dickie 
called to mind the young gentleman who read 
theology in Mr. Mowbray’s study, and conversed 
with him upon the doctrines of the Church. 
He imagined this Nat to be something like 
him. 

“Yes, I suppose we should call him a di- 
vinity student,” replied Bessie, artlessly ; “al- 
though he will always be Nat Crosby to us. 
He is a great help to father ; I don’t know 
what we should do without him.” 

“ He is going up to the swamp with us this 
afternoon,” said Johnny with expanding eyes. 

“ Why not go this morning ?” asked Dickie, 
looking off to the deep woods with an eager- 
ness to explore them. 

“Nat cannot leave the school this morning, 
and father is unwilling we should go without 
him. You never saw a rattlesnake did you ?” 

“ No, but I wdsh I could. Is there a pros- 
pect of our finding any in the swamp ?” 


54 


DICK WORTLEY ; OR. 


Bessie said that they were sometimes seen 
there — Kat knew their haunts, and was skilled 
in despatching the ugly reptiles successfully. 

He found his uncle in the stable grooming 
his horse, a half-blind creature whose days of 
usefulness were about ended. 

“ Is this the only horse you have asked 
Dickie, who knew that his uncle’s pastoral 
jurisdiction comprised a circuit of some forty 
miles. 

Mr. Wortley replied that old Dobbin was 
the only horse he possessed. He had been 
presented to him by one of his parishioners 
several years before, and although never valu- 
able, had done good service in his day. 

But it must take him a week to go ten 
miles,” said Dickie. 

“He seldom travels so far now,” replied 
Mr. Wortley. “ The most he does is to take 
us to church on rainy days.” 

“ Ah ! then you hire a horse for your mis- 
sionary journeys ?” 

Mr. Wortley, smiling, shook his head. “A 
missionary purse hardly allows that. I must 
go to Marston to-day — a little village some 
live miles from here, and must go on foot.” 

“ You are not going to walk those five 
miles ?” 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


55 


“ I certainly expect to ; it is no nnnsual 
thing ; I perform the same journey once a 
month. The church there is feeble ; the con- 
gregation does not exceed twenty persons, and 
they are poor people, who are really unable to 
do much for the support of the Gospel among 
them.” 

“ I think they might at least come for you, 
and take you home again.” 

“ They are willing to do so,” replied Mr. 
Wortley, “but such an interruption of their 
labor is no slight thing to those hard-working 
men. Besides I find walking more pleasant, 
except in foul weather, than jolting after their 
ox-teams. Then they cannot always know 
from what place I shall set out to reach them. 
I am constantly going from one little flock to 
another.” 

“Well, I shall never be a missionary,” said 
Dickie. lie thought his uncle’s lot hard and 
unprofitable. “ You ought at least to be paid 
as much as the ministers of the great churches 
at home. They do not walk a dozen miles or 
more to reach their congregations.” 

“ But who is to give the missionary a higher 
salary? These poor backwoodsmen have lit- 
tle to spare.” 

“ The Church should see that her mis- 


56 DICK wortley; or, 

sionaries are well paid,” replied Dickie, 
warmly. 

“ And wliat do you mean by the Church ? 
Tlie Board of Domestic Missions gives the 
missionaries the utmost it can afford; but 
that society is constantly crippled for want of 
means. Who is to pay the missionaries what 
you think they deserve ?” 

Dickie was silent a moment. 

Every Church member ought to give what 
he can,” he replied at last. 

‘‘ Perhaps I can ask a few questions which 
will solve the mystery. You are a member of 
the Church, are you not ?” 

‘‘ Why — ^}ms — I suppose so,” was the hesita- 
ting reply. 

“ You were made such by your baptism,” 
continued his uncle. “Kow tell me, if you 
can, how much you have given for domestic 
missions since you were old enough to give 
understandingly ?” 

“ I think I might better have kept silence,” 
said Dickie, who did not care to remember 
and confess his meagre contributions. ‘‘ I never 
gave much,” he said frankly, “ not as much as 
I ought to have given. But, Uncle William, 
why don’t you go and preach for some rich con- 
gregation that would give you a high salary?” 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


57 


“Why?” — and the missionary’s face beamed 
with holy enthusiasm — “ Why ? Because 
Christ is my example.” 

Johnny brought them an urgent summons 
to breakfast, which interrupted their conver- 
sation, but the seed had fallen upon good 
ground, though distant the harvest. 

Soon after breakfast the missionary set out 
upon his foot journey, the family following 
him to the gate, Dickie among them, to wish 
him good-bye. 

“ You must let me go with you some time,” 
said Dickie. “ I almost wish I were going this 
morning.” 

“You think you would like to walk five 
miles over a rough road, do you, and slefep in 
the attic of a log cabin? Well, you shall try 
it some time. I like company on my journeys. 
I am going to Bobinsford in a few weeks, a 
village some forty miles from here, and shall 
go by stage-coach most of the way. How 
would you like that trip ?” 

Dickie was delighted at the thought of 
making it, notwithstanding Johnny’s unfavor- 
able observations. It was Friday morning. 
Mr. Wortley would not return until Monday 
evening. He should make several pastoral 
visits upon the way, and he carried a little 


58 


DICK woetley; oe, 


basket filled with a few dainties liis wife bad 
prepared for the poor consumptive girl, who 
was dying rather from need of kind nursing 
than actual disease. It was a new and im- 
pressive sight to Dickie, this setting out of the 
missionary upon his journey, so like the foot- 
weary, pilgrim apostles of old. 

“ If you are going to school with us this 
morning,” Eddie said, interrupting his medi- 
tations, “you will have to corne now — we 
are late already.” 

“ There is to be no school this afternoon,” 
said Johnny. “Father told Kat to give a half 
holiday ; so Eddie can go with us to the 
swamp.” 

The boys started off on a brisk walk, Johnny 
running most of the way, as if his speed 
would hasten the hours between him and the 
excursion. The parish school-house was not 
far from the Rectory. It stood upon the 
small piece of land belonging to Mr. Wortley, 
and had been built at his expense; Rat and 
himself having performed most of the labor 
upon it. It was a small one-story building, 
comfortable and convenient, and beautiful in 
the eyes of the children alone. It was yet un- 
plastered and unpainted, and was located not 
quite half a mile from the village, if that little 


(iHOOSma A PROFESSION. 


59 


cluster of houses could be called a village, 
which nestled down in the valley. 

Mr. W ortley considered his parish school the 
most eftectual instrument he could employ for 
founding the Church upon a firm and lasting 
basis in his new and struggling parish. Relig- 
ious instruction — the teaching of the Church — 
was the golden thread upon which every gem 
of knowledge was strung. 

The school numbered about twenty pupils, 
of all ages, from five to seventeen, children of 
poor settlers mostly, who could pay little or 
nothing for the support of the school. Those 
who could pay nothing were freely admitted ; 
all were to contribute what they could, and 
the little sum was Nat’s salary. 

The scholars were assembled and in their 
places when the three boys entered the school- 
room. A tall, thin youth was calling the roll, 
in a sharp, drawling tone, very amusing to 
Dickie, who concluded that he must be one of 
the older pupils of the school. The dress of 
the tall boy was peculiar ; Dickie wished he 
could make a sketch of him, as he stood lean- 
ing over the desk, to send to the Academy boys. 
His thread-bare pantaloons, with great patches 
of divers colors, hardly reached his ankles, and 
Avere strapped over one shoulder by a broad 


60 DICK woktley; or, 

leather band. His loose blue bose fell down 
over tbe tops of bis coarse shoes ; bis long yel- 
low hair was sinootbly brushed, too smoothly 
for tbe improvement of his appearance. He 
wore neither coat nor vest over his coarse blue 
sliirt, which was minus a collar or necktie. He 
arose with an awkward bow when Dickie, with 
Eddie, ajiproached the desk. 

“ This is Mr. Crosby, Dickie” — Dickie could 
not believe he heard aright — or at Crosby, as 
everybody calls him.” 

Dickie extended his hand, wdiich was shaken 
most cordially. He thanked Mr. Crosby for 
the beautiful trout he had received that morn- 
ing, praising them highly. A broad smile 
spread over Hat’s homely face, which sulSced 
for his part of the conversation. Can that be 
the divinity student ? Dickie was thinking. 
What a figure he would make inside the 
chancel ! 

Hat opened the school that morning, a duty 
which devolved upon him in the Rector’s ab- 
sence. He read the Psalms, alternating with 
the children, the lessons for the day, and ap- 
propriate prayers. Dickie was impressed by 
the reverential attention of the children, and 
the fervency of their responses. 

“I wish you would hear our geography 







ii. 


't 






r , 


« . 


i : ■ - . ..,'v A 


i 






'f .- 


*• i/i 






Wt 



I 




,/^i 




• *.r* 




/« . 




S; 



V «, 


' •. V '^'' ' 

i'< r. :,%, : 





Dick, teaching Johnny’s Geography Class, under the Maples. 


Dick Wortlcv. 



4 



CHOOSINO A PKOFESSION. 


01 


class,” liad been Johnny’s wistful request of his 
cousin, who readily consented, for he was tired 
of sitting idle where every one else was en- 
gaged. As other recitations were going on, 
the geography class was sent out under the 
maple trees. Dickie could not help imagining, 
as he stood before the row of bare-footed chil . 
dren, who were seated upon a log, tlie surprise 
of the Academy boys, if they could peep from 
behind the stumps yonder, and behold him clad 
in the dignity of a school teacher. The subject 
of that day’s lesson was China — which Dickie 
made very interesting by relating much of what 
his father had told him of that strange country. 
The children were delighted with their new 
teacher, and besought him so earnestly to hear 
them every day, that he took the class for his 
own. Indeed, he granted every request but 
one — he would not set copies in Johnny’s writ- 
ing-book. 


1)2 


DICK WORTLEY ; OR, 


CHAPTER VI. 

PINE TIMES. 

Nat went to the Parsonage to dinner. 
Dickie was beginning to like him ; to see in 
the tall, awkward youth something besides 
what might be laughed at. He was shrewd 
and intelligent, full of anecdote and story, 
obliging and honest. 

They set off for the swamp immediately 
after dinner — Nat and Dickie, Eddie and 
Johnny. They carried guns and fishing-tackle, 
and Nat bore a stout hickory stick for defence 
against rattlesnakes, although he considered it 
doubtful if they met with any, as they had been 
nearly exterminated from that neighborhood. 

A full account of the interesting incidents 
of that excursion — their success at fishing — the 
game their guns brought down — the water- 
snakes they shot at — the big humble-bees’ nest 
they destroyed — the mud-turtles they sought 
for, but did not find — and, above all, the killing 
of a genuine rattlesnake — would make a vol- 
ume of itself, and one, perhaps, most boys 
would like to read. 


CHOOSING A PHOFESSTON. 


63 


Hungry and tired, they had turned their 
faces toward home, following Hat, who, as 
their guide, kept several paces ahead. Sud- 
denl;y he turned around and hushed them hy 
his face and gesture. 

They stood still, breathless with fear, while 
Hat stepped cautiously forward. There it lay 
in the path before them, coiled up spirally in 
the sun, and seemingly asleep — an ugly-look- 
ing reptile of a pale golden or straw color. A 
slight crackling beneath Hat’s heavy boot when 
he Avas close upon the creature with stick up- 
raised, called forth the noise of the rattle — a 
distinct whirring sound, Avhich made the spec- 
tators of his valor tremble from head to foot. 

‘‘How come and look at him !” For the 
hickory stick had fallen fatally, and the foe 
was harmless at their feet. Dickie did not 
approach very near to the rough-scaled, flat- 
headed, treacherous-looking creature, from 
whose stony eyes Death seemed to be looking 
out. 

Hat left them at the Parsonage gate, refus- 
ing an urgent invitation to supper. He ex- 
pressed an anxiety about “ things at home,” 
and feared it would be dark before his return. 

The next day being Saturday, and a holiday 
as usual. Hat invited Dickie to visit him. 


64 


DICK WOKTLEY ; OR, 


Dickie gladly consented; he had some curi- 
osity to see the home of his new friend. 

‘‘Has Hat any little brothers or sisters to 
take care of?” Dickie asked at the tea-table 
that night. 

“What led you to ask such a question?” 
His inquiry had alforded not a little amuse- 
ment. 

“ Oh ! because he was so anxious to get home 
before dark. He appeared like one who liad 
the charge of young children, and they were 
waiting for their supper.” 

“Well, he has as much care as a young 
mother, we tell him sometimes,” replied his 
aunt. “You are going to see him to-morrow, 
and then you will behold his little anxieties. 
Hat lives in a log cabin, all by himself, and 
his chickens, ducks, dog, squirrels, birds, and 
I don’t know what else besides, are the causes 
of his solicitude.” 

“Lives alone by himself? Why is that? 
Has he neither father nor mother ? ” 

“Hat’s story is an interesting one,” replied 
his aunt ; “ and you can easily lead him to 
relate it to you. His parents immigrated to 
this State a long time ago, when Hat was about 
three or four years old. They settled in a clear- 
ing north of us, a great distance from any other 


CHOOSiNa A profp:3sion. 


65 


settlement. It was a Lard lot for a delicate 
woman like Lis motLer, and sLe died tlie first 
winter after tlieir immigration. Hat remem- 
bers Ler very well, and Ler sad burial witliout 
priest or prayer.” 

“ But wliy was that ? ” asked Dickie ; “ I 
thought every one had religious services of 
some kind at funerals.” 

Ah ! you forget,” replied his aunt, “ that 
there are many of our Western settlements 
which are unvisited by a clergyman year after 
year. Hat’s mother w^as a Christian woman, 
but his father w^as a godless man, and after her 
death he was deprived of every holy influence, 
and grew up in ignorance — almost heathen 
ignorance of religious things. It is but six 
years since Hat Crosby learned his alpha- 
bet.” 

Dickie looked astonished. 

And now he is a scliool teacher ! ” he added. 
‘‘ That must be the Western progress we hear 
about at home.” 

“ And more than all, he promises to be one 
of our most efficient missionaries.” 

Dickie looked skeptical. 

“ I read your mind on the subject,” said his 
aunt, smiling. “ I do not say that he will ever 
be sought after by fashionable congregations. 


66 


DICK WOKTLEY ; OR, 


but that he is just the one for the field he 
intends to occupy.” 

“ But you have not told me how all this 
came about. What first led him to educate 
himself, or to think of the ministry ? ” 

“ It came about in this way. Your uncle 
had occasion to visit a village north of us, and, 
being overtaken by a heavy shower, stopped at 
a little log shanty for shelter. He found it 
occupied by a sick boy, who was lying there 
alone upon his bed, wasted with fever. It was 
Hat, and his father was at work in the field not 
far from the house. It seems the poor boy had 
grown low-spirited, and w^as weeping at the 
thought of death, and of his mother, when your 
uncle entered the room, and, sitting down 
beside him, comforted him by holy conversa- 
tion and instruction. On his way home he 
called upon him again, and found him im- 
proved in health, and hungering after right- 
eousness. He left books and tracts which Hat 
thought he could find some one to read aloud 
to him. A month after Mr. Wortley’s return 
Hat appeared at our door, and begged so hard 
to stay with us we could not refuse him, and 
he has been like one of our family ever since.” 

“But why does he live alone?” asked 
Dickie. 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. C7 

“ It is his own choice,” replied Eddie. “We 
have tried to persuade him to live here, but he 
likes his hermitage better. He did stay here 
for a year after he came to us, and then he built 
that little house in the woods, and went olf by 
himself. I am glad you are going there to- 
morrow ; you will have an interesting visit, be 
assured.” 

The evening was spent in cheerful games 
and conversation, and bed-time came too soon 
— no uncommon thing in a happy home circle. 
Dickie was sure he should not get homesick ; 
Christmas did not seem so far off as it had 
seemed before. The mother read the Psalms 
and prayers, and Dickie joined with the rest 
in the Lord’s Prayer. The holy influence of 
that Christian family was producing its effect 
upon him. 


68 


DICK WORTLEY ; OR, 


CHAPTER YIL 

DOWN AT THE CABIN. 

Old Dobbin jogged lazily along, as if he 
considered the roughness of the roads and the 
comfort of the inmates of the rockaway, al- 
though I think, if he had listened to their 
conversation, he would have had just cause for 
resentment, owing to the unfavorable compar- 
isons drawn between him and a younger and 
a far handsomer horse whose excellence his 
master never tired of praising. 

After driving more than a mile over a hilly 
road through the open country, they entered 
the woods and turned into what seemed but a 
footpath, the wheels breaking the underbrush 
as they drove along. 

A queer place to live in,” said Dickie. 
“ One would be inclined to stay at home after 
dark.” 

“ Hat likes it. He is homesick out of the 
.woods. He cannot sleep without the tree-toads’ 
lullaby.” 

“ Does he own this property?” 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


69 


“No, he is only a ^ squatter.’ He has a fine 
garden, and prides himself upon his vegetables 
and flowers.” 

“ He is his own cook and washer- woman,” 
said Bessie, “ and would knit his own stock- 
ings, I suppose, if it were necessary.” 

Suddenly they came upon a little opening 
in the woods, cleared of underbrush, but thick- 
ly dotted with blackened stumps, and shut in 
on all sides by a high overhanging wall of for- 
est trees. Here was a low misshapen log hut, 
nearly covered with vines, and surrounded by 
brightly-blooming flower-beds. Before the 
open door Nat was sitting upon a low bench, 
so engaged upon what he was fashioning with 
his jack-knife, that he was not aware of their 
approach until the growling of the do^ at his 
feet caused him to raise his head. Carefully 
laying aside his work, he hastened to give his 
visitors a welcome. He was dressed the same 
as on the preceding day, only having laid 
aside the luxury of stockings and shoes. 

“ Dickie is to stay here with you,” said 
Eddie, “until Bessie and I return from Susan’s. 
We shall not be gone very long.” 

“Don’t be too hard on Dobbin,” said 
Dickie, alighting, “ thinking I shall get tired 
waiting for you.” 


TO 


DICK WORTLEY ; OR, 


‘‘ Perliaps we had better leave you here to- 
night ; yon have thought it would be a fine 
thing to sleep in the woods ; Dan Boone had 
not always a roof over him, you remember.’’ 

“ I only wonder the mosquitoes did not kill 
him outright,” said Dickie, whose swollen 
hands and face were pitiable to behold. “No, 
you must not leave me here all night. Only 
don’t be too hard on Dobbin.” 

They drove off at Dobbin’s laziest pace, and 
Dickie followed Nat to the little house. 

“ Sit down, sit down,” said Nat, pointing 
to a low bench outside the door. “ I am glad 
of an opportunity to talk with some one who 
has seen something of the world.” 

“I have not seen much of it,” replied 
Dickie, his curious eye wandering inside o. 
the open door and marking the well-filled 
book-shelves, the table covered with books 
and papers, the maps on the rough wall, the 
neatly-made bed, and the gun suspended froix 
the rafters. A canary sang in the cage hung 
upon a tree near the door, a large Maltese cat 
was purring around Nat’s feet, the squirrels 
were leaping in their revolving prisons, and a 
pet brood of bantam chickens were hopping 
around the stranger with fearless familiar- 
ity. Everything was neat and home-like. 









^i!i^h¥iJi&jifUimiiiuii 


mnamjr, 




' 










Ti 


» - . 


H 






: *1 

^ * V 


Vd 




r;* 


S » ts-j 


i, 


1 ’ ' • * 

■f^. ., 

i •{ . Kt-s's . ', L 

I ^ * IHDU 






^ i A ^ 

_lilL“ 

W- 




>. « 








fT 


.•V^;>r..-!i|1 

= ■(> :% ■ lli? “ ’ .'3 

;(*;•'• •i‘ * .jjJti 

^iw"- ' 3 ^ ^ 




,} 


i^i 


• *% 


’’^ f’ * '■• d V * 

- r . \ '.*■ 

i i 


^4 




• *■• 




i » 


-.^1 






vn>7>« P-#73:i. *•, ’ y.— 

’..Ipiii V 


r. 





CHOOSING A PEOFKSSION. 71 

Dickie thought he could be contented there 
forever. 

“ I have not seen much of the world,” con- 
tinued Dickie, with still roving eyes, but I 
mean to travel extensively some day.” 

‘‘You have seen a great deal of the world 
already,” replied ]^at, seating himself upon 
the threshold, and regarding his visitor much 
as you might a traveller from Japan. “You 
have been brought up in a great city, where 
you have beheld the improvements and many 
of the wonders of the day ; your surroundings 
and advantages have been very different from 
mine, the son of a poor backwoodsman.” 

“ That may be, but I am happier here than 
I could be at home.” 

“ But you would not choose to live here 
always ;” and the shadow resting for a moment 
upon I^at’s honest face might have been that 
of discontent. 

“ 1 don’t know but I should,” said Dickie, 
dreamily, as he looked out on the high forest 
trees, and up to the blue cloudless sky. “ I 
don’t know but I should choose to live in just 
such a place as this.” 

“ And all alone, as I do ?” 

“ISTo. I don’t think I should like to be 
quite alone ; you are not without companions 


72 DICK woetley; oe, 

and he looked approvingly upon I^at’s ‘‘ happy 
family.” 

^‘Yes,” replied Nat, “hut even with such 
good company, a life like mine would be al- 
most insupportable without something still 
better for constant company.” 

Dickie did not understand him. 

“ Do you like to live here he asked. 

“ Yes ; it suits me now. But I do not wish 
to live here always. The truth is this,” he 
said, slightly coloring ; “ I am so far behind 
in my knowledge of books and the world, I 
choose to live here alone until I am fitted for 
the place I am ambitious to fill.” 

“ How much longer do you intend to study 
here ?” 

“ A year, perhaps. Mr. Wortley thinks I 
can go before then ?” 

“ Go where ?” 

“ Oh ! I thought Eddie had told you, for we 
are going to Nashotah together.” 

“ To Nashotah ?” Dickie did not remember 
ever having heard of the place before. 
“ Where is Nashotah, and what are you goingr 
there for?” 

Now if Dickie had asked where is British 
America, I doubt if Nat would have stared at 
him with greater surprise. 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


73 


“ Wliat! did yon never hear of I^ashotah?” 
Dickie shook his head. “ A Church hoy know 
nothing of Kashotah, the great Church sem- 
inary, where students are freely educated for 
the Western field?'’ 

“ It does seem now as if I had heard some- 
thing about it. We hear of so many such 
things at home. Mr. Mowbray is always ask- 
ing us to give for the support of some institu- 
tion or another. Oh yes ! one of our Sunday- 
school classes was called the Hashotah class. 
I remember wondering where their pennies 
were going to. But how can this seminary 
afibrd to educate the students for nothing ?” 

“ They not only educate their poor students 
without charge, but furnish them with cloth- 
ing and board. It is strange that you do not 
know all about Hashotah. The Sunday- 
schools at the East have done much for that 
■ institution. It is wholly supported by the 
charity of the Church ; ^ the daily mail brings 
the daily bread.’ ” 

And Eddie and you are going there to fit 
yourselves for missionaries? I wouldn’t do 
it, jN’at, if I were you.” 

“ What would you do ?” 

Do V’’ and Dickie’s bright, restless eyes 
wandered around the tops of the tall trees 
7 


74 


DICK wortlp:y; or, 


sliutting tliein in. “ Do ? wlij, strike out and 
make a fortune. You will never get rich 
preaching to poor folks here in the woods. 
Look at Uncle William. Learn a good trade. 
Some of our wealthiest men have been shoe- 
makei*s, blacksmiths, and even tinkers, you 
know.” 

Nat kept on whittling. There followed a 
few moments’ silence, broken by an enthusias- 
tic exclamation from Dickie. 

I have thought of the right thing for you 
now, Nat Crosby ! Here is the chance for you 
to make your fortune! You shall go with 
father on his next voyage. I am going, and he 
will do anything for my friends, and I call 
you one of them already. Will you go? Of 
course you will. You will never have another 
such a chance to see the world and to begin 
your fortune.” 

The stick Nat had been whittling feel from 
his hands. A gleam shot from his eyes — a 
feverish flush came out on his cheeks. He 
gazed into the deep dark woods, as if the won- 
derful world beyond was about to reveal itself 
to his longing vision. Then he looked up at 
the radiant-faced boy before him, as he might 
have looked at a fairy who was showering 
upon him every thing he had ever wished for. 


CHOOSING A PliOFESSION. 


75 


Dickie never saw such a change in a human 
face. 

“ Do you think your father would give me a 
place in his ship ? Oh, I have longed so much 
to see the world ! ” 

“He will do anything to please me. Of 
course he would give you a good place. It 
will he the making of you, Hat. He made a 
fortune at sea, and why can’t you ? ” 

“ It would be a chance for me.” Hat was 
talking to himself. “ I never dreamed of such 
good fortune. We would go to England, per- 
haps to France, to Italy, and may be I shall 
sometime see the holy cities of Palestine ; and 
if I should get rich !” 

“ I don’t know why you shouldn’t,” said 
Dickie, interrupting him. “ Father was a pen- 
niless and friendless boy when he set out on 
his first voyage. It’s a hard life, to bo sure ; 
but I think there is little choosing between the 
privations of a sailor’s life and those of a W est- 
ern missionary.” 

That last word of Dickie’s broke the trance. 
Hat started suddenly upon his feet and walked 
hastily up and down his little cabin, his face 
betraying the struggle within. 

“ I thank you heartily,” he said at last, “ for 
your kind interest in me; but I will not — 


76 


DICK woetley; oe, 


Tiotliing shall make me — ^give up the object to 
wliich I have dedicated myself.” 

“ You don’t mean to say that you will not 
go to sea with us, but that you will become a 
missionary ?” 

“ I do. There is no use of talking about it 
any longer. I have made a vow unto the Lord, 
• and with God’s help I will keep it.” 

“ Well,” said Dickie, awed by l^at’s decision 
and lofty bearing, ^‘you know your duty best; 
but I do hope you will change your mind on 
this subject before father comes home. He 
will be here about Christmas.” 

“ I must show you what I was at work upon 
when you came,” said I7at, unmindful of 
Dickie’s remark. Lifting the cloth with which 
he had covered the work-bench at their ap- 
proach, Dickie saw a smooth white board, upon 
which a Greek cross was neatly painted in 
black, and the words — 

in ARY, 

WIFE OP NATHANIEL CROSBY, 

DIED 18 , AGED 29 YEAES. 

“ I believe in the Resurrection of the body.” 

Dickie’s heart grew heavy. He sat down 
])eside Hat, and both kept silent. Dickie 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


77 


wished he was in the grave-yard at home, his 
face hidden in the cool grass waving above his 
mother’s bosom. 

“ My mother has been dead many years,” 
said Nat, dipping his brush in the paint, and 
resuming his work. “ I can remember some- 
thing of her ; her pale, patient face comes 
before me very distinctly at times, particularly 
when I am sick, or wake up in the night. She 
was a good mother. She prayed without ceas- 
ing. I believe it will be in answer to her 
prayers, if I go to Nashotah.” 

“ Do you think she would choose such a hard 
life for you ? My mother would not for me.” 

“ If she had lived where my poor mother 
did,” replied Nat, with swimming eyes, “ the 
prayer of her life would have been that you 
might grow up to become a messenger of His 
Gospel to his scattered and lost sheep. During 
the five years before my mother’s death, she 
never saw a minister of Christ, and but seldom 
a professor of His faith. She died without a 
prayer at her bedside, and was buried without 
religious ceremony.” 

‘‘ That was very sad indeed ! ” said Dickie, 
remembering the comforting words of the 
Burial Service, and Mr. Mowbray’s sympathy 
on that sad funeral day. 


78 DICK woktley; ok, 

“ That was a long time ago,’- continued ITat ; 
“ jet the settlement where her grave is, is still 
in almost heathen darkness. If God spare my 
i. e’- — and Nat looked heavenward — “and 
grant me his grace, I will plant the cross in 
that very spot.” 

Dickie said nothing. lie wondered no longer 
why Nat would not leave what he believed to 
be his calling. If I were Nat, he thought, I 
would be a missionary too. 

“ I hope I can finish my wOrk to-night,” said 
Nat, looking up to the sun, which was already 
behind the bough that told him when it was 
five o’clock. “ I am going home to-morrow, 
and want to take it with me.” 

“ So, then, you have another home besides 
this ? Have you any brothers or sisters ?” 

“ No ; father lives alone. He is an old man 
now, and once a month is seldom enough for 
me to see him.” 

“ Does a minister ever visit that place now ?” 

“No ; not exactly a minister,” replied Nat, 
blushing. “ They are better off than they used 
to be. I am doing what I can for them. Mr. 
W ortley goes there sometimes. He has baptized 
father and several children.” 

“ Why have n’t they a minister to visit them 
regularly ? ” 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


Y9 


“ The Domestic Missionary Society are doing 
all they can, here at the West,” replied Nat. 
“ They have not money enough to do all they 
would. I am impatient, sometimes, for the 
day to come when I can he a laborer in this 
great harvest-field.” 

Dickie thought of the costly churches at 
home, the towering spires, noble organs, and 
the crowd of well-dressed worshippers; and 
then of the village without a pastor, of children 
growing up without the knowledge of the Lord, 
and of faithful saints dying and being commit- 
ted to the grave without the ofiices of religion. 
He thought of the many young men he knew 
wlio were wasting their time and energies in 
idleness, whose talents and means could make 
them mighty to do good, if they but pos- 
sessed the nobility and self-sacrifice of poor 
Nat Crosby, the backwoodsman’s son. He was 
wondering why others did not hear the call, 
“ Come, work in the vineyard of the Master.” 
His ear was yet deaf to the voice calling even 
upon him. 

He had taken a fair survey of Nat’s home — 
the garden with its beautiful flowers and fine 
vegetables ; and had made the acquaintance of 
the tame crow, the squirrels, rabbits, and indeed 
the whole of “ the happy family ; ” and had 


80 


DICK WORTLKY ; OR, 


admired the stuffed birds, herbarium, and min- 
erals, when Eddie and Bessie came back. 

He went home thinking Hat Crosbj ought 
to be happy if anybody could be. 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


81 


CHAPTER Vni. 

DICKIE RECEIVES A NEW LESSON. 

It was a rainy Sunday. Dickie heard the 
rain pouring down when he awoke that morn- 
ing, and concluded that the family would not 
go to churcli that day. The supposition gave 
him no regret, for he would much rather stay 
at home. To his surprise and disappointment, 
upon going down stairs, he found the children 
in their best clothes, even to little Robin, who 
was upon Bessie’s knee, lisping over his lesson 
in the Infant Catechism. 

“ How far is it to the church ? ” Dickie 
asked, when, notwithstanding the unceasing 
rain, they were preparing to leave the house. 
Mrs. Wortley, Bessie and Robin, were to go in 
the chaise, while Eddie, Johnny and himself 
were to foot it through the mud. 

“ About a mile,” replied Eddie, entirely un- 
conscious of his cousin’s reluctance to going 
out. The walk is not a very bad one.” 

Dickie repressed a sigh for the paved walks 
at home, and wondered what Eddie would call 
bad walking. 


82 


DICK WOKTLEY I OK. 


“ But what minister have you to-day he 
continued. 

“J^one. When father is gone, we only have 
the Sunday-school. There will be a full at- 
tendance to-day, as we are to take up the col- 
lection for the Sunday-school library.” 

“ And how will that bring the children out 
in the rain ? Are they so anxious to dispose 
of their pennies ? ” 

But this collection is for our library^^"^ 
broke in Johnny, emphatically. “We are to 
have story-books in it.” 

“ I’se dot two pennies !” chimed in Bohin, 
opening his tightly-shut fists to show his 
treasures ; “ and I’se do-ing to ’ave a pim- 
mer.” 

“ And now what have you got ?” for cousin 
Dickie had crowded something more into the 
little chubby hand. 

“ A white penny ! A white penny !” and 
he ran to his mother with the dime. They 
could not convince him, though, that his white 
penny, as he called it, was worth more than his 
two copper cents. He would have parted with 
it sooner than with either of those. 

“You have not lived among us long enough,” 
said his aunt, “ to understand the children’s en- 
thusiasm regarding the Sunday-school library. 


CHOOSING A rROFKSSION. 


83 


Books and papers are not as plentiful witli us 
as with yon. The only books many of our 
scholars ever see are obtained at the Sunday- 
school. Our present library is a small one, 
and literally worn out. It consisted of but 
twenty volumes in the first place — a present 
from a friend of mine at the East ; and twenty 
books for a school of thirty scholars have been 
almost as great a source of trouble as of benefit. 
The childi’en have had to wait their turn 
for a book, and we have lost some of our best 
scholars, who were drawn away else-where by 
the use of a good library.’’ 

wish I had known you were in need of 
books,” said Dickie. “We have a house full of 
them at home, and you would have been wel- 
come to many of them.” 

“Won’t you send for them?” interposed 
Johnny, eagerly. 

Dickie said he would write for them on the 
morrow. 

“We hope to collect money enough to-day,” 
continued his aunt, “ to make a partial pay- 
ment at least for a small library. The chil- 
dren have done all they could to raise funds, 
but our people are so poor, I doubt if the col- 
lection exceeds five dollars.” 

“ Oh, mother,” said Johnny, plaintively, “ do 


84 : 


DICK wortley; oe, 


jOTi think we shall raise no more ? What will 
five dollars be toward onr library 

“ I shall not be surprised if we do not raise 
four dollars,” said Eddie; “Mr. Jones has been 
sick and cannot give any thing ; Mr. Brenn has 
lost his crops ; and Mr. Boss, from whom we 
expected the most, has gone to the East with- 
out remembering us.” 

“We will hope for the best,” said Bessie, 
putting on Kobin’s hat and cloak ; “I only 
wish father was here to praise the children for 
whatever they have done. Mrs. Bly tells me 
that her little Sarah has gone without Sunday 
shoes for the sake of giving something for the 
library. She has come barefooted to Sunday- 
school all summer.” 

“ Go barefooted for the sake of Sunday- 
school books !” said Dickie, half to himself. 
“ That is something new ! The boys at home 
ought to hear of that !” 

Walking ankle deep through the mud, the 
rain driving in their faces, they reached the 
village, and paused before an old two-story 
frame building which had once been occupied 
for a tavern. A weather-beaten sign still 
creaked over the bar-room door, and upon the 
piazza wall the fiaming handbills of a circus 
were posted. Dickie was surprised to see the 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


85 


pastor’s chaise standing under the shed of this 
desolate old house, as a church was not to be 
seen in the neighborhood. 

“ We hope to have a chapel some day,” said 
Eddie, observing his cousin’s face when they 
began to ascend the stairs outside of the old 
building. “ We are trying to raise the money 
now, but the prospects are not very encour- 
aging.” 

The room occupied by the little congrega- 
tion, and dedicated by them to the service of 
the Lord, had formerly been the ball-room of 
the old tavern. The walls were neatly white- 
washed ; snowy curtains concealed the cracked 
and mended glass of the windows ; a neat chan- 
cel of hTat’s workmanship surroimded a plain 
table, which served both as altar and lectern. 
The seats, though comfortable, were not adapt- 
ed to a drowsy congregation. The children 
were gathered around the stove, drying their 
wet clothing, and talking in low happy voices, 
showing the little sums of money which had 
been carefully tied in a handkerchief corner, 
or hidden in the safest pocket. 

Dickie stood beside his aunt, thoughtfully 
observing the scene. It was not time to open 
the school. The children observed an order 
and decorum, the violation of which is less ex- 
8 


86 


DICK WORTLEV ; OR, 


c*u>^al)le \^'liere tlie surroundings of the place 
remind one of the presence of the Lord. Dickie 
had felt awed oftentimes under the high vaulted 
arches of the grand old church at home, the 
amber light softly streaming down from the 
chancel window, the thrilling tones of the or- 
gan dying away as if lost in the clouds, while 
the white-robed priest declared unto the silent 
congregation the presence of the Lord in His 
Holy Temple, and bade the earth keep silence 
before Him. He had then felt an awe — a 
consciousness of the presence of the Almighty, 
which had sealed his thoughtless lips, and 
driven the world from his heart. He was won- 
dering if the present place would ever awaken 
those holy emotions, when the gentle voice of 
his aunt aroused him from his revery. 

“ This is very unlike your church at home,” 
she said, ‘‘ but you must not let the change de- 
press you.” She had marked the shadow on his 
face. ‘‘We are one fold, under the one Shep- 
herd. What do you think of our Sunday-school 
for a rainy day ? Hearly all of the children are 
liere, and some of them have walked two or 
three miles.” 

Dickie looked incredulous. He remem- 
bered the slight showers which had kept 
him home from Sunday-school, when he might 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


87 


have had the carriage to ride the short dis- 
tance. 

Do you see that little wee thing in the pink 
sun-bonnet ?” she continued, pointing to a rosy- 
cheeked little girl who was counting her pen- 
nies for Bessie. She lives three miles from 
here. That sturdy boy beside her is her brother, 
and he brought her to Sunday-school on his 
back this morning.” 

Bravo, for the little fellow ! I must have 
the honor of shaking hands with him.” 

His aunt related to him several other in- 
stances of the kind, showing the interest of 
the children in their Sunday-schools, and the 
self-sacrifice of many of them to raise money 
for the library fund. 

You have yet to learn the value of a Sun- 
day-school book I see,” continued his Aunt. 
‘‘You have come to the right place to receive 
the lesson. Books are the missionary’s best 
help, and children’s books in particular. I 
could tell you many stories of what the Sun- 
day-school books have done for the Church 
here. You see that tall young girl? She is 
Mary Snow, one of our best teachers. 'When 
we first came here she refused to attend the 
Sunday-school. Her parents were irreligious, 
and she was prejudiced against us. A neigh- 


88 


DICK WORTLEY ; OR, 


bor of hers was one of our pupils, and Mary 
used to borrow her Sunday-school books, and 
that was the secret of her finally attending 
church, and, in the end, she and the whole of 
her father’s family were baptized. Books build 
up our Western Sunday-schools; they are, in a 
multitude of cases, the secret of the mission- 
aries’ success. I don’t know how these chil- 
dren would bear the disappointment of having 
to wait another six months for their library.” 

“ I thought there was a society in ]^ew 
York, a Protestant Episcopal Sunday-school 
Union, which publishes books, and sends them 
freely to poor parishes,” said Dickie. 

“There is such a society, and they give 
away books when they can ; but books can- 
not be published and distributed for nothing ; 
the Church must supply the funds for this 
charity.” 

“ I suppose, then, it was to benefit parishes 
like this that Mr. Mowbray organized our 
Sunday-school into a Missionary Society,” 
said Dickie, beginning to feel an interest in 
the efforts of his pastor to awaken the zeal of 
the children under his care. “We were all to 
give what we could, and the money was to be 
sent at the end of the year to the Church 
Book Society, at Uew York, to buy books for 


CHOOSING A PKOFESSION. 


89 


poor Sunday-schools. Each class selected the 
object of its chaidty ; each having a difierent 
Diocese or Church institution.” 

“ And what did your class give for?” asked 
Johnny, who had been an attentive listener to 
the conversation. 

“Well, really, I do not remember,” vras the 
embarrassed reply.” 

“ How strange that is !” continued Johnny. 
“I hope it was for Wisconsin. Was it for 
Wisconsin ? Don’t you remember whether it 
was or not ?” 

Dickie could not remember. He had taken 
so little interest in the Sunday-school for the 
last two years. It was time to open the 
school. Eddie rang the bell, and the children 
were soon in their seats. Mrs. Wortley read 
a few sentences from the service for Morning 
Prayer, then all united in the Prayer of our 
Lord, and the confession of their faith, fol- 
lowed by the singing of the hymn which 
carried Dickie back home again, even to his 
nursery and his mother’s knee : 

“ Glory to the Father give, 

God in whom we move and live ; 

Children’s prayers he deigns to hear, 

Children’s songs delight his car.” 

“You will surely take a class,” said his 
8 * 


90 


DICK WDKTLEY ; OR, 


aunt, wlien tlie opening services were con- 
cluded, and the hum of recitation had begun. 
“ Those little boys are without a teacher to-day.” 

“You had better make me a member of 
a class,” said Dickie, “instead of giving me 
charge of one ; I am afraid every one of those 
little boys can beat me saying the Catechism.” 

Ilis aunt would not accept his refusal, so 
he followed her to the class in question and 
sat down before the bright little fellows, who 
were delighted at the honor conferred upon 
them. The lesson began with the question, 
“What is thy duty toward thy neighbor?” 
and the unhesitating, correct answer of the 
boy, not nine years old, who had never at- 
tended any school but the Sunday-school in 
his life, caused Dickie a secret mortification, 
and he firmly resolved upon committing his 
catechism to memory forthwith. 

The lesson being over, the exciting business 
of the day was reached, that of collecting the 
money and reporting its amount. Eager eyes 
gazed after the plate as it went its round, and 
every clink of the pennies sent a thrill to 
many a young hoping heart. If every one of 
those coins could liave told its own story, what 
a story-book of child-like faith, and child-like 
zeal it could have made. 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


91 


Three pennies only were waiting for the 
plate in Dickie’s class. One little boy was 
crying because his fatlier was too poor to give 
him any thing for the Sunday-school books. 
A bright half-dollar, slipped within his rough 
little hand, dried up his tears instantaneously, 
and lie laughed outright for joy, and held up 
the coin before the whole school. 

Anxiously they watched Eddie as he 
counted over the money, and when he arose 
to report the result, you might have heard a 
watch tick for the silence. Ilis face was not 
as joyful as they had expected it would be. 

“We must not be dissatisfied,” he said, 
“ for we have done the best we could. Our 
contributions for the Sunday-school library 
amount to $A88.” 

There was a low murmur of disappointment, 
a falling of expectant faces, a shedding of 
tears by not a few. 

“ Don’t despair,” continued Eddie. “ I 
think we shall get our library. $4.88 will not 
begin to pay for the one we need, but may be 
our Sunday-school Society can add as much 
as the sum we send. We will write to the 
society to-morrow, and send your money, and 
in a few weeks you shall know the result.” 

Then Mrs. Wortley talked to them, in her 


92 


DICK WOKTLEY ; OK, 


kind affectionate manner, commending tliem 
for what they had done, and encouraging 
them all as best she could. She told them of 
Dickie’s promise to send for books. The joy 
came back to their faces again, and they went 
home as happy as they came. 

Dickie was tempted several times to con- 
tribute largely to that morning’s collection, but 
his purse was not very full, and he was 
yet at the beginning of his quarter, and he 
knew his guardian too well to hope for a re- 
mittance from him before the stated time. 
He was growing provident. He had calcu- 
lated upon what the probable expenses of that 
quarter would be, and found he must limit his 
charities, as he was placed upon a shorter 
allowance of spending-money than he had 
ever had before. 


CHOOSINa A PROFESSIO^T. 


93 


CHAPTER IX. 

THAT LITTLE GOLD DOLLAR. 

Time did not hang heavily upon Dickie’s 
hands in his new home ; he never knew the 
hours to flit by so rapidly. He had become a 
regular teacher in the parish and the Sunday- 
school, besides having taken up Latin with 
Hat. fSTor had he lost his love of sport. 
Nearly every day he was off upon an excur- 
sion of some kind, either alone or in Nat’s or 
Eddie’s company. Early in the morning, be- 
fore the sun had risen, the report of his gun 
might be heard in the woods, or he would ap- 
pear at breakfast with a famous string of 
trout, for no one could catch such rare fish as 
he did. Then he had organized a base-ball 
and cricket club, and had even had a boat- 
race with the clumsy boat on the river. It 
was not long before he was the hero of all the 
boys at Lincoln, as he had been among the 
Academy boys at home. 

He wrote to Mr. Mowbray concerning the 
books he had promised to the Sunday-school, 


94 


DICK WOKTLEY ; OR, 


and Mr. Mowbraj liad made a selection from 
the boy’s library and sent them, in compliance 
with Dickie’s request. The selection comprised 
some thirty volumes, all in good condition, 
and although not strictly Sunday-school 
books, they would not be amiss in a parish 
library. There were the stories of Hans 
Christian Andersen, “The Heir of Redcliffe,” 
“ Swiss Family Kobinson,” and Dickie’s 
favorites, “School Days at Rugby,” and 
“Tom Brown at Oxford,” besides interesting 
works on Hatural History and Astronomy, 
beautifully illustrated. The joy at the Par- 
sonage upon the reception of these books was a 
precursor of what the joy at the Sunday-school 
would be. Ml*- Wortley thought it necessary 
to have the books neatly covered, and the 
name of the Sunday-school written upon the 
inside, before distributing them among the 
scholars. The package arrived on Thursday 
afternoon, and that evening every member of 
the household, including little Robin, who was 
“ something between a hindrance and a help,” 
was engaged in dressing the little missionaries 
in a serviceable travelling costume. 

“ How I wish I could read them all before 
they are taken to Sunday-school,” said John- 
ny, whose disposition to read a page or two of 


CHOOSING A PEOFESSION. 


95 


every volume which passed through his hands 
did not help to advance the work. 

“ Out ! out ! upon your selfishness,” re- 
turned Bessie. “ So you would have the 
children waiting until you had read the 
books?” 

“ Johnay did not consider his wish,” said 
the mother. 

“Well, then, I wish,” said Johnny, “ that I 
had been in cousin Dickie’s place, so as to 
have read them through before this. I would 
do nothing but read, if I had such pretty story- 
books.” Johnny was not very fond of study, 
you know. 

“ I doubt it,” said Dickie. “I doubt if you 
would read much more than you do now.” 

“ You are very much mistaken,” said 
Johnny, decidedly. “I should read them 
through more than once.” 

Dickie laughed outright. Johnny’s dignity 
increased*. 

“ Have you read all of them. Cousin 
Dickie?” he asked, thinking his inquiry a 
pointed one. 

“ Ho, nor half of them. That is why I knew 
you would not have read them had you been 
in my place.” 

“ But why didn’t you read them ? Only 


96 


DICK wortley; or, 

look at this pretty book with the leaves 
nncut!” 

Dickie took the book, and a pang of keen 
sorrow pierced bis heart at the remembrance 
it brought. The book was a gift from his 
mother, not a month before her death. She 
had requested him to read it. He had left it 
upon the hall table for several weeks, and 
finally the housekeeper had carried it to his 
room and placed it in the bookcase, where it 
had remained unread and forgotten. 

“ I cannot part with this book,” said Dickie, 
unable to conceal his agitation. “Mother 
gave it to me, and I have not yet read it.” 

That very night, when all were asleep, 
Dickie was reading the little book, wetting its 
pages with his tears ; for through it he seemed 
to hear his mother talking with him. It was 
that sweet little story which many of you 
have read over and over again — “ The Old 
Man’s Home.” 

The Saturday of that week was one of the 
happiest and most eventful days which ever 
dawned upon that ^Western parsonage. Hat 
went to the post-office that morning, no one’s 
hopes being unusually excited by the circum- 
stance, and returned with the carriage so 
heaped up with great brown packages, all ran 


CHOOSING A PROFESSIOIT. 


97 


out to meet him with cnrions faces. Could it 
he that the Sunday-school library had come? 

It really had, and a letter from the agent of 
the Church Book Society, addressed to Mr. 
Wortley, who eagerly broke the seal. 

“ I am afraid there is some mistake,” said 
Eddie. “ It cannot be that all these books 
belong by right to us.” 

But they did, as the letter proved. It stated 
that a few days before the receipt of Mr. Mow- 
bray’s letter, the Society had received from 
St. Mark’s Sunday-school — 

‘‘Why that is our Sunday-school!” ex- 
claimed Dickie — a most gratifying announce- 
ment to them all. 

The society had received from that Sunday- 
school the amount of a year’s contributions, 
which were to be devoted to supplying needy 
parishes with books. The sum of these chil- 
dren’s offerings had exceeded three hundred 
dollars, St. Mark’s being a large and wealthy 
congregation. The Diocese of Wisconsin had 
been liberally remembered, and the Parish of 
Lincoln specified by the wish of Mr. Mowbray, 
the Hector of St. Mark’s. 

The writer took pleasure, he said, in com- 
municating to them an incident connected 
with the raising of so considerable an amount 
9 


98 


DICK wortley: or, 


of money by children alone, and yon can im- 
agine Dickie Wortley’s feelings when listening 
to the touching story. A little sick boy, who 
had been confined to his bed the best part of 
his life — a very poor boy, too, who depend- 
ed oftentimes upon charity — had given a dol- 
lar toward the object. The dollar had been 
given to him by the son of wealthy parents to 
buy something nice and tempting for his ap- 
petite, but the poor boy had chosen rather to 
deny himself for Christ’s sake. 

“ Do you know who it is ?” all were eager- 
ly asking of Dickie, whose tears flowed fast at 
the thought of patient, siiffering Willie Nich- 
ols, shut out from life’s joy and sunshine, eat- 
ing his crust, that those hungering for right- 
eousness might be fed — and of his own selfish- 
ness, his waste of a hundred times the amount 
with which Willie Nichols had brought down 
heavenly blessings upon himself and others. 

“ Yes, I know the poor boy very well,” and 
Dickie’s account of Willie’s suffering, poverty, 
and gentleness touched their hearts. 

“Who gave him the dollar?” asked Johnny. 
“ That rich boy ought to give another now.” 

“ Perhaps he will.” There was something 
in Dickie’s reply which told them who the 
rich boy was. 


CHOOSING A PEOFESSION. 


99 


“ I will write to Willie Nichols,” said Bes- 
sie. “ I wish he could be at our Sunday- 
school next Sunday.” 

“ Do write to him, Bessie. Next Monday 
we will send him a lon^ letter, tellins: him 
of the children’s happiness to-morrow, which 
we shall witness. It will be a great comfort 
to him, and he needs comfort if anybody does.” 

“ And yet you say he is the happiest person 
you ever knew.” 

“ He is — I don’t know what would happen 
to me if I had to lie there one week as he 
does.” 

“ Perhaps you would find the same Com- 
forter,” said his aunt, softly. 

The packages were soon in the house and 
the books piled upon the parlor floor. Every- 
body worked hard that day, and it was mid- 
night before the family were in bed, and then 
they closed their eyes with satisfaction at the 
thought that every book was covered and 
ready for its journey of usefulness. 

The next Monday evening Dickie wrote the 
following letter to Willie Nichols : 


“Lincjoln Parsonage, Sept ., 18 — 

“ My dear Friend Willie : — Here 1 am, a 
great many hundred miles away from home. 


100 


DICK wortley; or, 


with thick woods all around me, and log 
cabins and stumps, and nothing that looks 
like the city where you are. Every thing is 
new and strange for a city boy like me. I 
am happy, and have not once thouglit of get- 
ting homesick. I go hunting and fishing, and 
have such luck as would make the boys at 
home open their eyes. I don’t think I shall 
be satisfied with the river, and the woods, 
if I ever get home again. And what else do 
you think I am doing ? I must tell you, for 
you would never guess. I am teaching school. 
We have a parish school here, and I assist 
uncle by hearing several classes. I like the 
business very much. I generally hear my 
classes on the logs outside the school-house, 
under the big maple-trees, a very pleasant 
school-room, only the squirrels make a dis- 
turbance sometimes. Then I have a class in 
Sunday-school — five little boys, who can say 
their catechism better than I could when I 
began to teach them. Two of these come 
nearly three miles to Sunday-school ; ‘ rain or 
shine,’ they are always there. 

But now I have somethimg very pleasant 
to tell you. We have just received a Sunday- 
school library ; and oh, Willie! what a good 
boy you are ! I know I could not have done 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


10] 


what yon did! No one that has any selfish 
ness about him ever could! Perhaps you 
wonder what I mean? We know all about 
your giving away that gold dollar ! The 
story came to us with our library. 

“ This parish is a poor one. They cannot 
afiford to build a chapel ; so they hold service 
in what was the ball-room of an old tavern ; 
a queer place for divine service, but as uncle 
says, “ it is nevertheless God’s Holy Temple.” 
They have a Sunday-school of about forty 
scholars, and were without books, excepting a 
few old ones, until last Sunday. They have 
been trying for more than six months to raise 
money enough to buy books, but, after all, 
their contributions amounted to only $4.88. 
They sent that on to the Church Book Society 
in New York, expecting a few books in re- 
turn — not such a large library as came last 
week. Their money had not paid for the 
books, but that of my own Sunday-school at 
home, and this is how we heard of your giving 
away your dollar as you did. How we all 
wished that you could have been with us 
yesterday, and seen the children when uncle 
told them of the books which had been pre- 
sented to them, and of the poor sick boy who 
had denied himself for their sake. They all 
9 * 


102 


DICK woktley; or. 


cried, and blessed yon, Willie, and after school 
I thought tliej would never stop asking ques- 
tions of me about you. My having seen you 
has made me of great importance in their 
eyes. 

If I had known as much as I now do about 
the Church here at the West when I was at 
home, I should liave given more to assist it 
than I did. The truth is, Willie, I did not 
care to know. I took no intei’est in the Sun- 
day-school, or any thing but what amused me. 
I wish some of the boys at home could live 
here awhile. If there is any thing I long to 
hear, it is St. Mark’s chimes, and the great 
organ. I have not heard a church bell since 
I left home, and it makes one lonely on Sun- 
days not to hear the bells. 

“ I hope to hear that you do not suffer as 
much as you did. I have written to Thomas, 
telling him to take you often to ride. How 
would you like to have Gruff spend the day 
with you once in a while ? He can laugh and 
talk with his eyes and tail, and would be very 
quiet if allowed to take a nap on your bed as 
he used to do on mine. I wish I could see 
the good old dog. I have half a mind to send 
for him. 

“ How would you like to have some of my 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


103 


pictures liuug on your walls ? There is one 
of Christ blessing little children, which I 
think you would be pleased with. You are 
welcome to it as a present from me. 

“ I will write to you again before long. Will 
not Mr. Mowbray write a letter to me for 
you f I have not told you about my uncle 
and aunt, my cousins and Nat Crosby, but 
I will in another letter. Cousin Bessie will 
send a letter to you with this. 

Good-bye. 

“ Your friend, Dick Wortlet. 

‘‘P. S. Enclosed you will find $3.00. Please 
accept it as a slight token of my regard for 
you. D. W.” 

Bessie wrote a sunshiny letter, full of 
Dickie and the Sunday-school, and Mr. Wort- 
ley enclosed a few lines of comfort and en- 
couragment. The letter was sent to Mr. 
Mowbray, who was to read it to Willie, as 
Willie could not read writing himself. 

That Sunday-school library was the secret 
cause of the prosperity of the Church at Lin- 
coln. It attracted children to the Sunday- 
school, who carried the book missionaries to 
their godless homes, where they did their 


104 : 


DICK woktley; ok, 


silent but effective work. Who will help onr 
Church Book Society to send books to the 
poor children at the West? Will not you, 
my young reader, and you? 


CHoosma a profession. 


105 


CHAPTEK X. 

DICKIE HEARS A VOICE. 

“ I AM going to Pobinsford to-morrow,” 
said Mr. Wortlej to bis nephew one morning. 
“ It is some forty miles from here, and a part 
of my journey must be made on foot. What 
say you to going with me 

Dickie was delighted with the idea of ac- 
companying him. The prospect of walking 
eight miles, and sleeping in the attic of a log 
cabin, did not discourage him in the least. It 
was just the adventure he wished for ; he ex- 
pected to have some remarkable things to 
relate upon his return. He would have been 
better satisfied with a prospect of sleeping in 
the woods, beside a huge fire, d la Boone. 
He put a box of matches in his pocket, in case 
such a thing should come to pass, and brought 
out his gun, intending to carry it with him, 
but his uncle raised so many objections to his 
encumbering himself with it, he reluctantly 
consented to leave it behind. 

Early in the autumnal morning, just before 


lOfi DICK WORTLEY ; OR, 

the sun rose, the two travellers bade good-bje 
to the group at the Parsonage gate and set 
out upon their journey. The frosty air exhil- 
arated them, making their steps brisk and 
light and their faces rosy. Mr. Wortley had 
to check his young companion repeatedly, and 
hinder him from walking too fast ; found it 
difficult to impress upon his mind the neces- 
sity of saving his strength for the latter part 
of the journey. Dickie thought there was 
little need of his uncle’s precaution. He was 
sure he could walk all day and not become 
tired. They were to take the stage-coach at 
the village five miles from Lincoln, which 
would leave them, about nightfall, a short dis- 
tance from the cabin where they were to spend 
the night. The next morning they would 
walk three miles and reach Robinsford. 

Robinsford was one of the most remote out- 
posts of the wide district under Mr. Wortley’s 
pastoral care. He had there a “ little flock” 
few in numbers but strong in zeal and faith. 
He could visit them but once in three months, 
and thankful and rejoiced were they that an 
ambassador of Christ came among them so 
often. When that long waited and wished for 
Sunday came round, no trivial excuse kept 
them from assembling themselves together, 


CHOOSESTG A PROFESSION. lOT 

and, if the missionary was wearied by his 
journey, the liappy grateful faces which wel- 
comed him more than repaid him for all. 

Dickie’s enthusiasm for pedestrian exercise 
so far subsided that he was glad when his 
uncle pointed out the steeple in the village 
where they were to take the stage-coach. He 
had silently concluded that riding would be 
quite as pleasant a way of seeing the country 
as walking through it. 

‘‘ Are you tired, Uncle ?” he asked, hoping 
the question would not be returned. 

Oh no, not yet. One seldom gets weary 
when there is something pleasant to think of.” 

Dickie might have said that his own 
thoughts had been pleasant enough, yet he 
was glad the stage-coach was but a short dis- 
tance ahead of them. 

“ My journey to Robin sford,” continued his 
uncle, “wearies me less than almost any 
other journey I have to make, which is owing, 
no doubt, to the pleasure I take in visiting my 
people there.” 

“ Is the congregation a large one ?” 

“Ho, quite small. The village does not 
contain more than three hundred inhabitants, 
and we assemble in a private house, or, what 
is often the case in warm pleasant weather. 


108 


DICK wortley; or, 


Tinder tlie trees in the open air. It will do 
you good to liear the responses of this little 
congregation.” 

“ And cannot they afford to support a pas- 
tor who might live among them or visit them 
oftener ?” 

‘‘ They cannot well do more than they are 
doing. They are poor hard-working people, 
many of them living upon uncleared land, and 
finding it hard enough to eke out their little 
substance so it shall last them through the 
winter. They seem to live upon the hope of 
better days to come. They do all they can to 
support the Gospel among them, and that is 
very little. I do wish they could receive as- 
sistance from some quarter. They have a 
Sunday-school, but no books — very few books 
of instruction. There are not over a dozen 
Prayer-books in the parish, and few religious 
books of any description. Our Missionary 
Society has not the means to help them.” 

‘‘ I wish some of our rich Church members at 
home could come out here, and live in one of 
these poor parishes awhile,” said Dickie. 

“I think it might do them good,” replied 
Mr. Wortley, pleasantly. “We are too apt, 
in the enjoyment of rare blessings, to forget 
the unblest.” 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


109 


It was a rough, hilly road, the stage-coach 
none of the most comfortable, and the passen- 
gers unaccommodating. Dickie was never 
more thoroughly jolted. He wished he could 
have walked the whole distance. Wedged 
between two corpulent, complaining old farm- 
ers, wdio smoked and chewed incessantly 
without the least regard for cleanliness, he 
could not enjoy the scenery of the beautiful 
road over which they travelled, nor think of 
any thing but his discomforts and aching 
limbs. lie wondered at his uncle’s cheerful- 
ness and patience. 

The night had closed in when the coach 
stopped — and Dickie had begun to think it 
never would — and the missionary and his 
young companion alighted where four roads 
met in the thick woods. Hothing like a 
human habitation was to be seen. The whip- 
poor-will’s mournful cry, and the chorus from 
a neighboring marsh added to the dismal ness 
of the spot. Dickie began to think they had 
made a poor exchange for the uncomfortable 
coach. His fine fancies of a night in the 
woods d la Boone entirely vanished. He did 
not like the reality, and w^as rejoiced to hear 
his uncle say that the cabin where they were 
to spend the night was but a short distance 
10 


110 


DICK wortley; or, 


from them. To Dickie, who was very tired, 
the prospect of a bed of any kind was most 
comfortable. 

They liad proceeded but a short distance, 
defending themselves from the mosquitoes as 
well as they could, which, with picking the 
way over the rutty road gave them little op- 
portunity for conversation, when a light came 
glimmering through the trees, and soon the 
sound of voices fell upon their ears. Two 
boys had been sent out with a lantern to meet 
the missionary, and their surprise at seeing 
Dickie was not at all diminished when he was 
introduced to them as Mr. Wortley ’s nephew 

from the city of . Mr. Wortley took 

the lantern and the two boys fell into the 
rear. 

“ How is your grandfather now Mr. 
Wortley asked of them. 

One of the boys replied that he was very 
low. Ho one had thought he would live to 
see the missionary again. Mr. Wortley said 
he should not have been surprised had they 
met him with the intelligence of the old man’s 
death. He was thankful for the privilege of 
seeing him once more ; this visit would doubt- 
less be the last. 

“So grandfather has been saying to-day,” 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


Ill 


said tlie elder boy. “ He lias asked for you 
several times since mornino:.” 

Mr. Wortley quickened his steps, and they 
soon reached the little shanty, in the door of 
which a woman was standing, holding a 
candle high above her head. Dickie could 
see in the flickering light her tearful joy at the 
missionary’s approach. She eagerly grasped 
his hand, and hurried him into the house. 
Dickie followed, quietly seating himself upon 
a bench near the door. 

It was a small, low apartment, the only 
room in the house excepting the attic, which 
was reached by a steep ladder in one corner 
of the room, and up which the boys had 
bounded with a celerity astonishing to the 
stranger. The walls were unplastered, the 
logs and rafters being bare, and the latter were 
thickly studded with iron hooks upon which 
were hung a variety of articles — dried meat 
and fruit, red peppers, and well-filled little 
bags. There was a great fire-place with a 
great fire in it. The tea-kettle was singing, 
and a young girl was frying meat before the 
coals, the savory smell of which was very 
pleasant to the hungry boy. A table was 
spread at one side of the room, with the queer- 
est old-fashioned crockery Dickie had ever 


112 


DICK WOKTLEY ; OK, 


seen. Two or three little children were peep- 
ing at him from their hiding-places, or clinging 
bashfully to their mother, who was talking 
low and earnestly to the pastor as he bent 
over the bed in the curtained recess. Tliere 
had been no thoughtless expenditures in that 
humble home ; every penny had been turned 
over and over before dealt out by the hard 
toiling hands. 

The two boys dropped down the ladder and 
seated themselves as near to Dickie as their 
timidity would permit. Both were barefooted, 
and wore blue shirts and loose pantaloons of 
the same material. They manifested a desire 
to entertain their visitor, but lacked courage 
to enter into a conversation ; so Dickie broke 
the ice by telling them of his unpleasant jour- 
ney, drawing a description of the surly old 
gentleman who had insisted during the long 
ride that Dickie was crowding him. Their 
cheerful conversation did not disturb the 
invalid, as they spoke in subdued tones, and 
he was also quite deaf. The two boys asked 
many questions about the city in which Dickie 
lived — questions revealing how little those 
children of the forest knew of the world they 
had never seen, and seldom heard from. 
Dickie took pleasure in answering them, and 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


113 


in adding to their little store of knowledge. 
He represented some things upon the slate, as 
well as he could, such as a train of railroad 
cars, a ship, a block of city houses, an omni- 
bus, and a church with a great high spire as a 
picture of old Trinity. His power of delinea- 
tion failed, however, in his attempt at a 
regiment of cavalry, and the evolutions of the 
Light Guards, leaving not a very clear im- 
pression of military display upon the mind of 
the two boys, who were as much delighted 
with his poor pictures, as some of you were 
upon your first visit to a museum. 

Dickie was glad when supper was ready. 
The meal consisted of potatoes baked in the 
ashes, pork swimming in a deep platter of 
grease, coarse bread, and tea sweetened with 
maple sugar. Dickie ate heartily, thinking 
the supper a capital one. 

Mr. Wortley asked Dickie to go and sit 
down by the bedside awhile, as the old gen- 
tleman had expressed a wdsh to see him. A 
smile came over the w^asted face upon the 
pillow when Dickie parted the curtains around 
the bed, and the trembling hand was feebly 
extended to welcome him. 

Eighty years of hardship and deprivations 
had that old pioneer seen, for, from a child he 
10 * 


114 DICK woktley; oe, 

had lived in the wilderness, pushing westward, 
until he was too feeble to swing an axe any 
longer. The youth was touched by the sight 
of his helplessness and infirmity, and recalled 
lo mind the beautiful words of the Psalmist: 
“ The days of our years are threescore years 
and ten; and if by reason of strength they 
be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor 
and sorrow ; for it is soon cut oflf and we fly 
away.” 

“ You have come a great many miles and 
Dickie bent low to catch each whisper. ‘‘It 
is a great blessing to live where the poor may 
have the Gospel preached to them ; remember 
that, my son.” 

Speaking with difficulty, and making long 
pauses in each sentence, he continued, holding 
fast to the boy’s hand : 

“ Nearly all of my long life has been spent 
where I had no Christian influences. My sons 
and daughters grew up without a knowledge 
of the Lord. We had no one to preach to us, 
to baptize the children, or break for us the 
Bread of Life. Mr. Wortley came, God be 
praised !” 

Wearily his eyelids closed. His lips moved, 
but his words were inaudible. Still he did 
not release Dickie’s hand. Suddenly openinpr 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


115 


his eyes, he fixed theiii upon the youth and 
spoke with greater energy than before. 

“ Why won’t you come ? They are calling 
in vain ; there is no one to go to them. There 
are but few who dedicate themselves to the 
Master’s service — to His hard, cross-bearing 
service, I mean. AVon’t you come Is there 
any thing to prevent your returning to us, God 
willing, in a few years ?” 

“This is a new subject, and I must think 
about it,” Dickie replied. “I promdse you 
I will think seriously of it.” Dickie’s heart 
was thrilling with a new and holy desire. 

“ God bless you, my son !” and the old 
man’s hands were laid in benediction upon 
the boy’s head. “ God make you his servant 
— an apostle for this Western wdlderness.” 

There was a new purpose in Dickie’s heart 
when he left that bedside. He wondered if it 
would pass away like other ambitions he had 
cherished — transitory dreams of future great- 
ness or usefulness. He hoped it would not — 
but he could not answer for his fickleness on 
the morrow. 

The Holy Supper was administered to the 
dying saint that night. Silent and thoughtful, 
Dickie sat apart from the rest, and thought, 
when he saw the comfort that precious sacra- 


116 


DICK WOKTLEY ; OB, 


ment can give to the dj^ing, of the many sick 
beds unsoothed by religious solace ; of burials 
without priest or prayer, and mourners un- 
coinforted by a faith in the resurrection and 
the life of the world to come. He tliought of 
the vast spreading territories far to the north- 
ward and westward, of the rapidly increasing 
population, and the little handful of mission- 
aries scattered among them. “ Ah !” thought 
he with a sigh, how many must die before 
the first missionary visits their home, how 
many are praying to-night for God to send 
an apostle unto them, to baptize their chil- 
dren, and protect them by the blessed influence 
of the Church. He heard the voice calling 
upon him, beseeching him after this wise: 
“ There is nothing to prevent your becoming a 
minister of Christ. You are not too young 
to dedicate yourself to his work. Your father 
will liberally educate you. You will have 
means to devote to these poor people. Can 
you refuse the entreaty? Choose ye whom 
ye will serve.” 

It was late before he fell asleep that night. 
Nothing but his disturbed mind kept him 
awake, for his bed was comfortable and he 
was very weary. He slept in the attic, his 
uncle and the two boys occupying the same 


CHOOSING- A PROFESSION. 


117 


room. He could see the stars through the 
cracks in the roof. He thought of his mother, 
and wet his pillow with weeping. W ould she 
have consented to his studying for the ministry, 
for the missionary field ? Had she not always 
endeavored to fire his ambition for some lofty 
purpose — ^lofty in the world’s view ? But, 
could she teach me now,” thought he, “ she 
would teach me a different lesson from what 
she did then. I believe she would advise me 
to do this very thing for Christ’s sake.” 

But Dickie did not make up his mind. In 
the morning he was more undecided than 
before. 

“ Don’t forget, my son, don’t forget,” said 
the old man at their parting. These are my 
last words to you; your uncle will bury me 
upon his return. God bless you !” 

It was nearly noon when they reached the 
village of Robinsford, a rapidly growing little 
place, promising to become a town of impor- 
tance. The Romish Church on one hand, and 
infidelity on the other, had already obtained a 
strong foothold among the villagers, who were 
visited by a Protestant clergyman but once in 
three months. 

Sunday was warm and pleasant, and the day 
had been appointed for Baptism. The service 


118 


DICK WORTLEY ; OR. 


was held in a beautiful grove of- oaks bor- 
dering on a clear running stream. The at- 
tendance was large, and, although comprising 
many scoifers and irreligious persons, the peo- 
ple were quiet and attentive to a remarkable 
degree. A few Prayer-books were scattered 
through the congregation, the responses were 
loud and fervent, and the singing was with 
“ the spirit and the understanding also.” The 
baptisms Dickie should never forget — so like 
scenes in the days wPen John the Baptist was 
preaching in the wilderness of Judea, and bap- 
tizing in the Jordan ; the lofty trees rustling 
solemnly over their heads, the rough-faced 
men, the care-worn women, smiling through 
holy tears upon the little ones they had brought 
unto Christ; the missionary standing upon 
the bank of the stream — a common china bowl 
served as a font — signing the children which he 
took into his arms, and the gray-headed men 
who knelt at his feet, with the sign of the 
cross. 

“ Alas !” thought Dickie, looking from one 
little child to another upon whose baby brow 
the baptismal drops still glistened, “ why must 
they be deprived of the protection of the 
Church; left to wander from the fold into 
which they have now been received ? God 



The Baptism in the Woods. 


Dick Wortley 


p. 118 , 

















f r r» 


f' 








* 










t 4 


At' ^ 

j:^ * 




L.'»'^ 

# V 


iv 


*, ' .J .V.: - '(^ . S, 

‘>j • 5 V-"., -i- A S 

^li a ♦ - _ ^ . A ' • ^ - ’- • *■ i ' r 


’^- '.i. 

It ^ * “ 


»' 


f=.' 




'f 


7iA\' 

iH ' !t' 




^ 


r. y.£J 

' ■it.r 


'• ■r 

r • 


J if. i 

*- ^ *^^5 I ’ ♦> < t ’ 

^ i.-.A*' , J • • 


• • 




^ 




^ V> • ^ MASK'S 




►- Vi I 


« t 




f 


u 


t* 






\y 


I 


» 


<r 


'A 


^ K 


M # 

'A - lR 






XU-,. 1 


!f * ^ 


'U 


-h 






iHi 


* • 


*••• 




' ** 




>■ 


-^' 








•* t> 






I * 


IV 


k r 


*j 




1 1 


v! 




t 


*W A**^l j 
ii^ 


.V* 


.< o 


*1 4,- f 


V 

k V a 


4 


*K 


» •« 


:A:^ 


ct 




‘if4 ♦» 


!f 






I 


V I 


|W 




•I 


f. *» 


> 


I • • 


I 




.» r 




it* « 


i;^ 


r » » -, , 



CHOOSING A pkofp:ssion. 


119 


send them a shepherd, lest one of these little 
lambs should be lost.” 

Going home, they found the good old man 
dead, as they expected he would be, and lying 
in his rough pine coffin, awaiting a Christian 
burial. As Dickie stood beside the newly made 
grave, and surveyed the little groups, many of 
whom had heard that day for the first time of 
the Resurrection and the Life, and looked 
upon the unbaptized children whose wonder- 
ing faces told how great was the unexplained 
mystery of death to them ; he heard again the 
appeal of the sainted pilgrim just fallen asleep, 
and called silently upon the Lord, “What 
wilt thou have me to do ?” 


120 


DICK wortley; or, 


CHAPTEE XL 

TAK^G A STAN’D. 

Mr. Wortley found upon his return from 
Eobinsford a letter from the bishop of the 
diocese, notifying him that he should visit 
that parish (D. Y.), in the course of two 
months, for the purpose of administering the 
rite of Confirmation. A visit from the bishop 
was a joyful event with that little community, 
and this one had been anticipated with more 
than usual interest, as a large class awaited the 
laying on of hands. Among them were Eddie 
and Bessie, who had not lightly considered the 
matter. Strange as it may seem to some of 
you. Confirmation was something to which 
Dickie had never given a serious thought. 

He was sitting alone in the parlor ; the 
twilight was deepening, and he could read no 
further without a light, and he did not care to 
get one. He liked to indulge in a revery, and 
this seemed a pleasant opportunity. His book 
had fallen unheeded to the floor, and he was 
— he scarcely knew where — when his uncle 
entered and sat down beside him. 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


121 


“ Have you ever been confirmed he asked. 
Dickie replied that he had not. 

“ It is your desire to be, is it not continued 
his uncle. “You have now come to years of 
discretion, when it is your duty openly to rati- 
fy and confirm the vows made in your name 
at your baptism.” 

Dickie said it was a subject he had never 
thought about. He appeared indifferent con- 
cerning it then. 

“ But have you no desire to confirm those 
vows ? Why should you defer avowing your- 
self a disciple of Christ, identifying yourself 
by your own profession with the visible Church 
of God?” 

Dickie merely said he did not know why he 
should. He had never thought about being 
confirmed, but supposed he should be at some 
time or another. 

“ You must not be indifferent on this subject, 
Kichard. I can see no reason why you should 
not be confirmed when the bishop comes.” 

“ What ! so soon, uncle ? I am not prepared 
for this step.” 

“ What preparation would you wish to make 
that you cannot make within the next three 
weeks ? I would not have you take this step 
inconsiderately, and I cannot see but that you 
11 


122 


DICK WORTLEY ; OK, 


have ample time for preparation. There is an 
erroneous opinion entertained bj some, which 
regards Confirmation simply as an outward 
form or custom, without regard either to quali- 
fications or privileges ; a mistake as mischiev- 
ous in its effects as another entertained by a 
larger class, but never taught by the Church — 
that young persons are to put off the duties of 
practical religion, especially the duty of Con- 
firmation, until they have passed through a 
period of excitement and undergone a certain 
process of despair, agony and rapture, which 
they consider a necessary prelude to an open 
confession of faith in Christ. The doctrine of 
the Church is this. The necessary qualifica- 
tions for Confirmation are the same in their 
nature and import as the qualifications for 
baptism, and what those are is stated in the 
answer to the following question in the Cate- 
chism : ‘ What is required of persons to be bap- 
tized V You may give the answer, Richard.” 

Dickie’s late application to his Catechism 
enabled him to repeat the answer correctly : 

‘‘ Repentance, whereby they forsake sin, and 
faith, whereby they steadfastly believe the 
promises of God made to them in that sacra- 
ment.” 

“ Richard,” the voice was so like his father’s 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


123 


the boy started and looked np to his uncle, 
who arose and laid his hand upon his nephew’s 
head. “ I fear to have you go out into the 
world before taking this step. If you do, you 
may never take it, never take a decided stand 
upon the Lord’s side. I know what boys like 
you have to meet with out in the world, and I 
shall tremble for you, Dickie, if you go forth 
without the full armor of the faith. Jesus 
Christ has commanded you to confess him be- 
fore men, and why are you reluctant to make 
that confession ? Rather your thankfulness and 
love should make you eager to proclaim your- 
self a follower of the Lamb.” Then with 
touching solemnity he repeated the language 
of our Lord, and every word sank deep into 
the boy’s heart : “ If any man will come after 
me, let him deny himself, and take up his 
cross and follow me.” 

‘‘ He that is not with me, and he that gath- 
ereth not with me, scattereth abroad.” 

“ Whosoever, therefore, shall confess me be- 
fore men, him will I confess, also, before my 
Father which is in heaven ; but whosoever 
shall deny me before men, him will I also deny 
before my Father which is in heaven.” 

“ I am not ashamed to confess Christ before 
any one,” said Dickie earnestly, “ but I am 


124 : 


DICK WOKTLEY ; OE, 


not good enough to go to the Lord’s table, and 
if confirmed, I should be expected to go.” 

“But will staying away make you holier ? 
You cannot reverence that holy mystery too 
highly, nor think too unworthily of yourself 
when you would partake of it. The great 
question is, whether you are penitent for your 
sins or not ? If you are, and truly so, then, 
though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be 
white as snow, though they be red like crim- 
son, they shall be as wool. 

“ Take your Prayer-book, Pichard, and read 
with a devout, prayerful spirit the service for 
the Baptism of Children; and see if there is 
in 3mur heart a desire to ratify those holy vows 
made for you by your sponsors. Bead also the 
Order for Confirmation, and tell me why you 
should not present yourself as a candidate for 
Confirmation, when the bishop comes. You 
do not know but this will be the last oppor- 
tunity you will ever have of openly avowing 
yourself a disciple of Christ — a willing member 
of His Church. You have read many lessons 
of the frailty of human life. Be, then, no 
longer almost persuaded to be a Christian ; 
but say, in the deepest sincerity of your soul. 
Whatever others may do, I am resolved to 
serve the living God.” 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


125 


'Hot many days after, Dickie informed liis 
uncle that he had made up his mind to join 
the class for Confirmation, and asked for books 
to assist him in his preparation. Mr. Wortley 
furnished him with proper reading, and had 
frequent conversations with him upon the 
important subject. There was little hypocrisy 
about Dickie Wortley. He must thoroughly 
understand what he professed to believe, or 
the reasons for his acceptance of Divine 
truths. Derision could not make him 
swerve from doing what he believed to be 
right. 

Would the Academy boys laugh at you, if 
they knew you were going to be confirmed 
asked Johnny, one day, when they were talk- 
ing of the bishop’s visit. 

“ Some of them might, and those would not 
be worth minding. But boys don’t laugh long, 
where it don’t pay. I’ve found that out. How 
we used to torment poor Freddy Cole! We 
could make him ashamed of any thing, by 
laughing at him. I wish the Academy boys 
did know that I am going to be confirmed. I 
wish some of them were here — Charlie Boss, 
and Brian Stone ; you can’t find better fellows 
anywhere. They will be surprised when they 
hear of it ; they won’t believe it at first. It 
11 * 


126 


DICK WOKTLEY I OR, 


may set them to thinking of such things ; I 
hope it will.” 

“ Will they like you as well as they used 
to?” pursued the inquisitive Johnny. 

Why shouldn’t they ? I hope I shall not 
be as overbearing and exacting as I used to 
be ; nor fly into a rage so easily w^hen things 
go wrong. ‘ The boys ’ will not be my great- 
est persecutors : those will be in here,” and he 
laid his hand upon his breast. 

A letter came from Willie hTichols, written 
by Mr. Mowbray, at Willie’s dictation. It 
was as follows : 


“ October 18 — 

“ My dear Friend : — 

‘‘ It was very kind of you to write to me. 
Yours is the flrst letter I ever received. 
I have thought of you a great deal since you 
went away ; there has not been a day when 
something has not brought you to my mind : 
either Thomas has come to give me a drive in 
that beautiful carriage, or Gruff has bounded 
into my room, as if seeking his master. I 
wish he could And him here some day. Your 
housekeeper sends me a nice meal every day, 
and keeps me in wine, from which I receive 
much strength. 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


127 


“ I think sometimes that you must he the 
happiest hoy in the world, and then I re- 
member you have your sorrows, like the rest 
of us. My mother died when I was a baby, 
you know ; and if any thing makes me un- 
happy, it is thinking of what I lost in her. I 
sometimes think that if I had had a good 
mother to nurse and take care of me I should 
not have been the poor sick hoy I am now, 
and always must be ; for, Dickie, the doctor 
does not think I will ever he well. I take 
comfort in these words : ‘ But, though he 

cause grief, yet will he have compassion ac- 
cording to the multitude of his mercies ; for 
he doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the 
children of men.’ 

‘‘ How I should love to be out there in the 
woods with you ! I never saw the woods, 
except in pictures ; but I love the trees, the 
grass, and every green thing, as much as if I 
had seen them every day of my life, as you 
have. The tops of the maple- trees down in 
the street are all the verdure I see year after 
year. Do you wonder that I almost envy 
you, and think you the happiest boy in the 
world, because you can run over the fields, 
under the trees, and hear the wild birds sing, 
as they say they are always singing in the 


128 


DICK wortley; or, 


woods in summer time ? I lie here and sing 
sometimes of the land where — 

‘ everlasting spring abides, 

And never-withering flowers : 

Death, like a narrow sea, divides 
This heavenly land from ours.’ 


“ I did not expect to hear so directly from 
my little gold dollar. I cannot tell yon how I 
felt when listening to yonr letter. God is good, 
very good to me. I am so thankful He enabled 
me to deny myself as He did. Surely this is 
an exceeding great reward. 

“ I am very grateful for the three dollars you 
sent me. It must have come in answer to 
prayer, for father had been out of work, and 
we were in a hard place when it came. God 
will reward you ; I know He will. 

I wish you to thank your uncle and your 
cousin Bessie for their letters to me ; they 
made me very happy. It must be delightful 
to live in a home like your uncle’s. You 
cannot get lonesome with so many dear ones 
around you. 

‘‘ I hope you will write me another letter. 
Tell me more about your cousins, your parish 
school, and the Sunday-school. I wish I 
could go to Sunday-school. I wish I could 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


129 


be a missionary, like your uncle, some day. 
Did you ever wish that ? 

“ Mr. Mo’wbray brought your pictures and 
hung them up here. How beautiful they are ! 
I do not get so lonely since they came. I 
have something to look at, and to talk to. 
The picture of Christ blessing little children 
hangs where I can see it all the time. It com- 
forts me. I look at it, and sing the hymn I 
learned in one of my little books — 

‘ I think, when I read that sweet story of old, 

How Jesus was here among men, 

And took little children, like lambs, to His fold, 

I should like to have been with them then.’ 

“ Good-bye, my dear, good friend. I will 
send you another letter before long if I can. 
Pray for me. If the Sunday-school children 
talk of me to you again, ask them to pray for 
me. 

“ Your friend, 

“ Willie Hiciiols, 

“ j3er Mr. Mowbray. 

Kichard M. Wortley, 

“ Lincoln Parsonage, Wis.^' 

Hot a week after, another letter came from 
Mr. Mowbray. Willie was dead. The good 
ansel had come for the sufferer at last. He 

O 

would never more say, “I am sick.” 


130 


DICK woktley; or, 


“ To-morrow is appointed for the funeral,” 
wrote Mr. Mowbray. The Sunday-school 
children will attend in a body, and march in a 
procession to the grave. Helpless with suffer- 
ing and penniless as Willie Hichols was, the 
Church sustains a loss in his death; for he 
prayed without ceasing in her behalf. 

“ His face wears its sweetest smile as he lies 
there painless in his coffin — asleep in Jesus. 
He spoke of Dickie Wortley a few moments 
before he died — asking God to bless his noble- 
hearted friend.” 

Dickie shed many tears for Willie. He re- 
gretted not having done more for his comfort 
when it was in his power to assist him. He 
had laid a plan for the poor boy’s maintenance, 
to be carried out when the old ship should come 
home from China. Willie was to live in a 
pleasanter house, and have a good nurse to tend 
him, and books and pictures to his heart’s con- 
tent. But a kinder hand than Dickie’s had 
been extended to the motherless boy, and a 
fairer home given him — yea, “one of many 
mansions.” 


CHOOSING A TROFESSION. 


131 


CHAPTEE XII. 

THE LIGHT FROM HEAYEH. 

The Friday after the Confirmation, which 
took place on a November Sunday, Xat told 
Dickie in the morning that he should not be 
in school that day, and requested him to hear 
his classes. He was going home, he said, to 
be absent until Monday. 

wish I could go with you, Hat,” said 
Dickie, who had been invited several times to 
make the visit. 

I am sure I shall be glad to have you,” 
returned Hat warmly. “We will go on horse- 
back. It is a wild road — one that will interest 
you.” Then he added in a different tone, his 
face darkening with anxiety : “ It is a month 
now since I was home — and I can’t help feel- 
ing troubled about father.” 

Early in the afternoon they galloped off from 
the Parsonage gate, Dickie in high spirits,- and 
Hat apparently cast down. He made an effort 
to be cheerful, but did not succeed, and so re- 
lapsed into a silence his companion did not 
break, for his own glad heart was keeping him 


132 


DICK woktley; oe, 


good company. There were several causes for 
Dickie’s happiness ; his ruddy health, contented 
mind, the handsome horse under him — a horse 
will make a boy happy if any thing can — and 
above all, the approach of Christmas, when he 
believed his father would return. He knew 
just how many weeks and days must pass be- 
fore he might begin to look for him,” and 
every night he rejoiced at the lessening of the 
time between him and the happy event. Hap- 
py, yet sad withal — for he believed his father 
would not learn until his arrival of the sad loss 
he had sustained, and would hasten to his son 
stricken down by the blow. 

‘‘Oh, Hat! Only think of it! In a little 
more than four weeks I may expect father any 
moment ! A month seems a great while, but 
what is that to the three years he has been 
away ?” 

“ Do you think he will take you away from 
here?” 

“Hot if I wish to stay ; but I shall go with 
him, H at, wherever he goes after this. He did 
think of giving up the sea; but I don’t believe 
he will now.” 

Dickie’s reply showed that he had not come 
to any decision upon the subject he had prom- 
ised to consider seriously. Sometimes he had 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


133 


resolved to dismiss it from liis mind altogether. 
He would stay by his father’s side. He would 
strive for a lofty position — one which should 
yield him fame and wealth. He would make 
his father proud of his son’s laurels some day. 
He would go to school in Germany. He would 
become acquainted with the works of the old 
masters in painting and architecture. lie 
would live in a world very different from the 
sphere in which Hat and Eddie would be con- 
fined. Yet these aspirations gave liim no com- 
fort, and the remembrance of the dying old 
man, by whose grave he had almost resolved 
upon dedicating himself to a missionary life, 
made him unhappy in entertaining them. 
Many voices called to him from the glorious 
future. Some were urging him onward to fame, 
others to the pursuit of wealth, or the acquire- 
ment of knowledge ; and among them was 
‘Hhe still small voice ” — the voice of the Lord : 
‘‘Leave all, and follow me.” 

The sun was setting when the two horsemen 
emerged from the woods through which the 
last few miles of their journey had lain, and 
entered a hamlet of small log cabins, around 
which the poorly-clad, swarthy children were 
playing in company with the swine, cows and 
chickens. H at’s arrival made no small excite- 
12 


134 


DICK WOTiTLEY; OR, 


ment among them. They ran forward to greet 
him, making great demonstrations of joy at his 
arrival. For every one he had a kind word, a 
special communication, and made many inqui- 
ries concerning their little affairs. 

There, that is our house,” he said, pointing 
with his whip to a cabin in the shadow of the 
woods, situated apart from the other habita- 
tions. ‘‘ Things don’t look right to me” — and 
he urged forward his horse. “There is no 
smoke coming out of the chimney, nor any one 
to be seen about the premises. If father is w^ell 
I think he wmuld be watching for me.” 

“Perhaps he is out in the field,” suggested 
Dickie. 

Nat made no reply. He gave a shout when 
they stopped before the cabin door, but no one 
appeared. Dickie remained outside while Nat 
went in to ascertain how things were. 

Dickie thought the place one of the most 
dreary he had ever seen, and did not envy Nat 
for having spent his childhood there. The 
black, lonesome woods behind the house, the 
fields covered with charred stumps, the miser- 
able cabins, the ragged children, and the sense 
of being separated many miles from any other 
settlement, depressed him strangely. He won- 
dered how any one could choose to settle in 


I 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


135 


sHcli a spot — or endure to live there more than 
a day. He pitied the children whose home it 
was; he wished he was rich enough to trans- 
port everyone of them to a pleasanter locality 

“Come in, Dickie,” said Hat, coming to the 
door. He looked pale and distressed. “Father 
is very sick indeed.” 

“ Let me go for a physician,” said Dickie, 
taking up the reins, which had fallen upon his 
horse’s neck, for he had not yet left the saddle ; 
“ you can direct me so I can find one, I am 
sure.” 

“ It will be useless for you to go,” said Hat, 
huskily ; “ the nearest one lives some ten miles 
from here. There is a good old nurse in the 
village, and I will go for her myself presently. 
Come in ; there is no use in your going for the 
physician.” 

“ I think I had better. Hat.” 

“ It is too late, and the road is a very bad 
one. It would be of no use, Dickie ; I am 
sure it would be of no use ;” and again he 
urged him to enter the house. 

The room was but dimly lighted, there being 
neither fire nor candles in the house, and the 
one window was «mall and nearly opaque with 
webs and dust. Ho doubt a woman’s hand 
would have made the place more comfortable 


136 


DICK woetlet; or, 


and cheer j. It was a long time since the pa- 
tient wife and mother had finished her last 
hard day’s work and gone to rest on an un- 
troubled pillow. Since then there had been 
no one to “ tidy up” the little cabin but the 
father or son. A powder-horn hung over the 
door, a gun over the chimney-place. There 
was an open cupboard containing a few pieces 
of crockery, a loaf of bread quite dry and hard 
with age, and a plate or two of cold victuals. 
Farming implements hung about the room, a 
harness lay upon the fioor, and articles of cloth- 
ing filled the few chairs. Upon the bed the 
old pioneer lay in a state of partial uncon- 
sciousness. 

The neighbors were soon hurrying in with 
offers of assistance. Two old nurses held a 
solemn consultation, and decided with Uat that 
there was no use in sending for a physician- — 
the worst would soon happen. The kind- 
hearted souls reproached themselves severely 
for not having been up to see Mr. Crosby 
within the last few days. The weather had 
been foul, and the old gentleman had looked 
so well when they last saw him, they had not 
dreamed of his falling suddenly ill. Every 
thing was done to relieve the sufierer, but 
at daybreak the summons came, and Hat 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 137 

wept by bis dead father’s pillow lilve a little 
child. 

‘‘ You say the funeral must be to-morrow,” 
said Dickie to his afflicted friend. Have you 
sent for a clergyman V’ 

“We cannot have a clergyman,” replied 
Hat, struggling to be calm. 

“ Why not ? Let me go this instant for 
one. My horse is good — the funeral can be 
deferred for a day.” 

“ You are very kind, Dickie, but there is no 
clergyman to attend father’s funeral. Your 
uncle is thirty miles from home, at Lamerton. 
Even should you go there for him, there is no 
certainty — hardly a probability — of your find- 
ing him there. Mr. Brown low, whose parish 
is nearest to us, is sick with a fever. I know 
of no one else. They are the only clergymen 
in this region. There is no help for it, Dickie 
and Hat bowed his head upon his friend’s 
shoulder and gave way to his grief. “ God 
has willed it, but it is hard. Poor mother was 
buried without prayer, but father must not be. 
Dickie, you must read the service for me. If 
not, I must read it myself, and I fear I could 
not get through with it.” 

“ The service shall be read for you,” said 
Dickie, hoping he could find some one to read 
12 * 


138 


DICK wortley; or, 


It besides himself. “ Your father shall not be 
buried as your poor mother was, ]^at.” 

But Dickie could not find any one to do 
what he trembled to perform himself. lie 
looked in vain for a suitable person among the 
inhabitants of that little hamlet. Many of 
them could not read. Others were scoffers, or 
in some way unfitted to officiate at such a sol- 
emn ceremony. Dickie saw no alternative to 
his reading the service himself, if it were read 
at all. Nat certainly was not in a condition 
to read it, his grief was heavy enough without 
the additional sorrow which Dickie’s refusal in 
this matter would have given him. 

Monday afternoon came, and the few friends 
and acquaintances of the deceased gathered 
around the old pioneer’s coffin, to offer their 
tribute of sincere regret and esteem. But few 
were expecting any religious services, and the 
surprise of many was manifest when the boy 
stood up beside the coffin and read, in a sol- 
emn and impressive manner, those portions of 
Holy Scripture so appropriately forming a 
great and most comforting part of our Burial 
Service — those promises of the resurrection, 
and the life of the world to come. 

When they were come to the grave, Dickie 
was thankful for having it in his power to ad- 


CHOOSINa A PROFESSION. 


139 


minister comfort to liis stricken friend, for are 
not tlie prayers of the Chnrch onr sweetest 
solace in times of affliction ? A fervent 
‘‘Amen” burst from many lips when those 
prayers were ended — from lips that had lon^j^ 
since ceased to pray. 

That afternoon Dickie set out alone on his 
way back to Lincoln. As he rode along he 
was like one in a dream, for absorbing thoughts 
had taken possession of his mind. Yon re- 
member the story of Saul of Tarsus ? As lie 
journeyed to Damascus, how “ suddenly there 
shined round about him a light from heaven ?” 
Well, a light suddenly broke upon Dickie — a 
heavenly light. Pausing there in the thick 
woods, in the deepening twilight, with none 
but God and the angels to behold him and 
hear his voice, he bowed his head upon the 
neck of his horse, and gave utterance to this 
heartfelt vow : 

“ Lord, I will be Thy servant ; willing to 
suffer, if need be, for Thy sake. I will leave 
all and follow Tliee. Let me become one of 
Thy messengers.” 

It seemed as if “ a glory shone round about 
him.” He felt that God’s blessing had fallen 
upon him with the utterance of his vow. 

From that moment his purpose was unwav- 


140 


DICK WOKTI.EY ; OR, 


ering, and lie could truly say : My heart is 
fixed — I will rejoice and give praise.” 

lie laid plans for the future as he rode 
along. lie would begin a course of study to 
lit himself for Nashotah, whither he would go 
with Eddie and Kat. 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


141 


CHAPTEK XIII. 

A 

GONE TO COLLEGE. 

Only two weeks before Christmas! The 
trees were bare, the ground was white ; Bessie 
and the mother were always making some- 
thing nobody must see, and which kept Johnny 
guessing continually. The Pector had arranged 
the Christmas festival for the parish and Sun- 
day-schools — the evergreens had been brought 
from the woods, and long wreaths were already 
wmven ; everybody was happy, and Xat whis- 
tled and sang Christmas comes but once a 
year.” Dickie could not keep his mind or his 
eyes on his book. He would sit gazing out of 
his window an hour at a time as if he expected 
to see the old ship coming out of the woods. 
He was sometimes uneasy and impatient, and 
would start off to the post-office, only to return 
more despondent and ill at ease. Oh, those 
long, long days! "Would Christmas never 
come ! He wrote almost daily to his father’s 
attorney, who would have the first news from 
the Captain, but received no answers from that 
eccentric okl gentleman. 


142 


DICK wortley; or, 


Since Dickie's resolution to devote himself 
to the ministry, he had pursued his studies 
most zealously, and made rapid and gratifying 
progress. He was happy in contemplating his 
plans for the future — ungilded by worldly splen 
dor as they were. He longed to be at his work. 
He anticipated his father’s disapproval of his 
intentions, hut knew his kind and indulgent 
parent too well to fear the least opposition from 
him. “Father will let me choose for myself, 
and will be content with my contentment ” — 
was the thought which solaced him. 

He had not lost his generous impulses — his 
inclination to empty his purse at every appeal 
to his charity ; though he had learned to give 
wisely and discreetly, remembering his respon- 
sibility as a steward of the Lord. But a small 
portion of his allowance was spent upon him- 
self or seliish objects. Denying himself for 
Christ’s sake, a Sunday-school library had 
been sent to Bobinsford, books scattered among 
the children around Hat’s home, and his un- 
(‘le’s congregation had been presented with a 
beautiful though not costly font. 

Dickie spent most of his evenings with Hat. 
They read, translated, and played chess toge- 
ther, or talked over the past and their kindred 
hopes for the future. One evening, just before 

II 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


143 


Christmas, they had been making an evergreen 
cross and triangle for tlie chapel, and cutting 
letters out of green cloth to form the sentence 
“ The Day Spring from on high hath visited 
us,” to he arched over the altar, and so much 
engaged had they been in their work that it 
was nearly eleven o’clock before Dickie laid 
down his compasses and set out for liome. It 
was a clear, frosty, moonlight night ; and Dickie 
emerged from the woods singing in his loud 
sweet voice the old carol he had been teachinjr 
the children of the school, that they might sing 
it under the Rector’s window on Christmas 
eve — 

“ As Joseph was a walking, 

He heard the angels sing, 

This night shall be the birth-night 
Of Christ the heavenly King.” 

ITow, if Dickie had believed in ghostly ap- 
paritions — if his mind had been less healthy 
than it was, I think he might have beaten a 
retreat from the figure which seemed to have 
suddenly dropped into his path, and which was 
slowly approaching him. He broke off sing- 
ing, in the middle of a line and of a word, and 
uttered an exclamation of incredulity and sur- 
prise. Could it be his father ? In another mo- 
ment he was folded in a long, silent and tearful 
embrace. 


144 


DICK WOETLEY; OEj 


The father lifted his son from his shoulder 
and scanned his face and figure, hardly able to 
speak for his emotion. 

‘‘ It is hard to believe it is you, Dickie. You 
are almost a man. I left a little boy when I 
went away.” 

“And you do not look the same, father. 
You are thin and pale. Are you sick, or only 
excited and tired ?” 

“It is two weeks since we reached port. 
Important business prevented my hastening to 
you. I sent a dispatch, however, which your 
uncle says did not reach you. ***** 
I heard of her death two months ago, far out 
at sea. We met the Manhattan. Capt. Long 
told me. It was a terrible blow to bear alone, 
my boy — as each of us had to bear it.” 

Arm in arm they walked slowly toward the 
Parsonage, talking little for the fulness of their 
hearts. Capt. Wortley had reached his broth- 
er’s house about ten that evening. He would 
not allow them to send for his son, but chose 
to go for him himself The meeting between 
the two brothers was touching in the extreme. 
The long eventful years of their separation had 
not diminished their affection for each other. 
They were Pob and Willie still, though the 
heads of both were silvered with age. 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


145 


Tlie father and son were within sight of the 
Parsonage. The cheerful light gleamed across 
the snow, and they could see the little heads 
in the window watching for their return, for 
the trundle-bed had been forsaken when the 
great arrival was made known. The father 
paused, and folded his son again to his heart. 

“We will not leave each other, my boy. 
We will go back to the sea together. We can 
have no home now she is gone. I have sold 
the ship and have made a fortune for you. 
W e will travel over the world — it will be as 
good as going to college for you.” 

What should the affectionate boy tell his 
father ? Should he silently renounce his holy 
purpose, or take up^ his cross, leave all and fol- 
low his Master ? 

“ Father,” and he looked earnestly into the 
eyes regarding him so fondly, “ I have chosen 
my path in life, and wait but for your consent 
to be happy in following it. My choice will 
surprise you — grieve you, perhaps, although I 
feel sure of your approval in the end. I am 
going to study for the ministry.” 

“For the ministry ! My son nothing but 
a preacher! Indeed, I am surprised!” He 
looked deeply distressed. He was not a devout 
Christian, and his ambition for his son’s posi- 
13 


146 


DICK wortlet; or. 


tion in the world had been the fire of his life. 
It was a downfall to him — a grievous disappoint- 
ment — but his love for his son was greater than 
aught else. He could and would sacrifice his 
dearest wishes for the boy’s happiness. 

“I am sorry to grieve you, father, but' I 
must do what I think is right.” 

‘‘And you shall, my boy, but — but” — he 
shook his head, and went on muttering to him- 
self, too low for Dickie to hear. 

Capt. Wortley had not been many weeks at 
the Parsonage betoe he became reconciled to 
the course his son had adopted. He would 
never leave the boy again, he said ; he would 
settle down there in Northern Wisconsin first, 
and he did not know but that was as good a 
harbor for a disabled old slfip as any he could 
find. So he built a fine Parsonage, and fur- 
nished it throughout, reserving one mite of 
rooms for Dickie and himself. That house was 
the admiration of the country round about, and 
if any thing exceeded the universal admiration 
for the new Parsonage, it was that for the kind- 
hearted old Captain who was like a beneficent 
fairy in the land, who built a stone chapel with 
a tower and stained glass windows, a parish 
school-house, and gave presents to all the chil- 
dren at Christmas time. 


CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 


14:7 


Kat and Eddie pursued their studies at his 
expense. ]^at has entered Nashotah, provided 
for, and independent of the charity of the 
Church, which he would thankfully have re- 
ceived had not Providence ordered otherwise. 
The two cousins have engaged in their prepar- 
atory studies at a college in one of the older 
States. 

* * ***** 

School was out, and the “Academy hoys” 
were assembled upon the common for a match 
game between two rival ball-clubs. 

“ I only wish Dick Wortley was here,” said 
a member of the club to which our friend for- 
merly belonged ; “ then w^e’d see who’d come 
out ahead.” 

No one disputed the speaker, for Dickie was 
an acknowledged champion. 

“ Oh, I have some news to tell you about 
Dick Wortley !” exclaimed Charley Mowbray, 
a nephew of the Pector. “ It will be a long 
time before he comes back here again. He is 
studying for the ministry !” 

Every boy gave vent to his disbelief or sur- 
prise. Some laughed at their old comrade, and 
a few speculated on the faithfulness of the new 
divinity student to his calling ; but at last Ned 
Robbin’s lungs — and Ned was looked up to by 


148 


DICK wortley; OB, 


every boy on the ground as the personification 
of manliness and true honor — overtopped the 
uproarious conversation. 

‘‘I always knew Dick Wortley was of the 
true metal. Of course the story is true. It 
would be just like him to turn missionary — 
rich as he is.” 

“Think of Dickie Wortley preaching a ser- 
mon I” But the remark did not excite ridi- 
cule. Dickie was a gi^eater hero than ever 
among his faithful friends. 

“ They say he has got to be a great student,” 
continued Charley Mowbray, “ and that he 
teaches in the parish and Sunday-schools.” 

“Good for Dick Wortley! We must tell 
Prof. Mathematics of that.” 

“And he gives away his money to the Church 
out there. He don’t spend it ‘ hit or miss’ as 
he used to.” 

“ But what has changed him so ? He thought 
no more of such things than the rest of us when 
he was home, and did not come to Sunday- 
school once a month.” 

Charley told them something of Dickie’s ex- 
periences at the West — of the missionary’s fam- 
ily, and their self-sacrifice — of the visit to Eob- 
insford, the Confirmation, and of Hat Crosby, 
Dickie’s best friend. More than one brave- 


CHOOSING A PEOFESSION. 


149 


hearted boy brushed the tears from his eyes 
when Charley told them how Dickie read the 
burial-service at the grave of his friend’s father. 

“ I only wish he would come home and see 
us this fall — what a welcome we would give 
him” — said Dickie’s old friend and playfellow. 

“ I’ve half a mind to join him at college myself. 
Wouldn’t it do him good to light on me there 
some morning ! Three cheers for Dick Wort- 
ley !” and up went his cap in the air, followed 
by every cap on the ground, and loud huzzas 
for the generous-hearted boy, of whom every 
one could remember many a noble and unself- 
ish deed. 

And if this little book shall lead even one of 
you, my boy readers, to fix your hearts upon ^ 
the hope om’ Western boys have chosen, its 
object will be accomplished, and a prayer have 
been answered. 

13 * 








1 





1 









